


A Year of Golden Silence

by LucyCrewe11 (Raphaela_Crowley)



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama & Romance, F/M, Pevensies not all related to one another, Teenage Drama, Teenage Rebellion, Tragedy/Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26801095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/LucyCrewe11
Summary: In the aftermath of a tragedy, Edmund faces the new school year, sees the world for the dark place it is, and eventually learns how to confront his past and move forward.
Relationships: Edmund Pevensie/Lucy Pevensie, Edmund Pevensie/Susan Pevensie
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Numb Apathy

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this was inspired by "Speak," yes, the writing style is meant to be in mimicry of that YA book. 
> 
> No, this was not a recent piece of work, I wrote it in 2010. 
> 
> Yes, I originally had resolved NOT to repost this, for personal reasons, but I've changed my mind. The personal reasons are nothing that should prevent anyone who wants to download this or read it again from doing so. 
> 
> And if no one wants to read this again, that's fine as well, I know it's not Shakespeare. It's just here in case anyone wants it.

It is the first term after the summer holidays. I have a two-year-old satchel, a hat I rather dislike, a new electric-torch, a mobile for emergencies only, and an apple given to me by my parents in case I get hungry-even though I haven't felt like eating anything for so long I've almost forgotten what hunger feels like. Even though everything tastes like sawdust now.

This morning I didn't want to go to school. I still don't. I do not want to ever go anywhere again. But of course my parents, the lovely Mr. and Mrs. Justaciturn, made me get up and put on my school uniform.

Which brings me to another thing I loathe about today; the fact that my school is barely a half-step up from being a public privy, the five pound admittance fee is practically a joke (most kids my age are probably just going to pocket it as soon as their parents are out of sight), and yet they still make us wear uniforms. What's worse is they can't even keep their own school colours straight. First it was red because we were the home of the Bloody Bears (no, I'm dead serious, that's what our rugger team was called); then people got all worked up because apparently 'bloody' is a swear word, not to mention it invoked 'too violent an image' and was evidently offensive to bears everywhere (who knew?). So then the new colour was blue and we became the Blue Lions (they wanted us to be the 'Gold Lions' but the headmaster said like heck he was letting us strut around in uniforms with golden thread thinking we were better than everybody else). Which of course freaked out the parents who realized they were the ones who had to pay for the new uniforms, and a nice-sized chunk of them refused, so a lot of the kids have red jackets over their white shirts. My parents were total kiss-ups to the administration; and so I'm one of few who have a blue jacket and a monogram-school-crest shaped like a Lion as opposed to the classic bear.

So here I stand, in my blue jacket that apparently will help bleeding bears with their self-esteem, waiting in the middle of a subway station so I can go back to a place that probably has lice. Yeah, I'm so thrilled.

Bored, I take a book out of my satchel. It's not a school book, just some semi-popular novel I've been trying to work my way through since the beginning of summer. My bookmark is in the middle, I know I've read nearly half of the book, yet I remember nothing about its plot or characters. Nothing except the first two pages I read before everything worthwhile in my life went down the drain.

I turn to the third page. There's a little red flower pressed into it. A fire-flower, I think it's called. My stomach tightens. I don't want to look at that flower or think about the person who gave it to me. Slamming the book shut, I wipe at my eyes which are mostly dry anyway. Still I had to check. If I've got to go to school, then I'm not showing up there with tears in my eyes. I don't want pity or scorn.

What do I want? I want to be home with the covers over my head.

No, forget that, I want a time machine to take me back in time to when I didn't know the one person you felt the closest to could just be snatched away from you. Before the phone rang and my parents looked at me, their eyes glistening sadly.

I wonder if anyone is even going to bother talking to me this year. I had a bit of a falling out with most of my friends recently-although it feels like decades ago. It didn't matter to me at the time. They were being asses, and I didn't care if they ever got over themselves and came round or not.

Probably they knew perfectly well I wasn't going to suck up to them until they forgave me. From what I heard, they all said, "It's just because he's got a girl."

Well, they were wrong, I didn't have _a_ girl; I had _the_ girl. The sweetest girl in the world.

Maybe I should try to act like nothing's happened to me, as if I'm simply not the same person who just lost his girlfriend. I might even change my name this term. Then I won't be me. I could find some new group to hang out with.

But that's all rot. No group would take me in. I avoided Television like the plague all summer so I wouldn't risk hearing the news reports about the recent railway accident. I refused to go anywhere; no parties, no pools, no beaches, no parks. No one's really seen me since it happened. No one wants to talk to some apathetic guy who doesn't care if the world blows up next week. And even if they do, I have nothing to say.

The subway has arrived; the doors open. I step onto it.

Half-heartedly, I glance at the other people around me. No one too interesting.

A mother with a yowling baby. A fat man with a long white beard wearing a blood-red suit as bright as hollyberries; rather makes one think of Father Christmas. A dwarf with a short red beard and a brief-case; seems grumpy. His nametag says: 'Trumpkin'. I guess it is his surname. A young couple-maybe fourteen years old, a little over a year younger than me-holding hands. They don't go to my school; I've never seen them before.

I can't look at them for too long. He squeezes her hand lightly and she smiles at him. I wish I could make myself not know that kind of smile, make it mean nothing.

A distraction, I'm praying, anything.

Bam! I get my wish. Two boys from my school I haven't noticed because they are standing directly behind me snatch my hat from my head and laugh.

What do I care? I didn't like that stupid hat anyway.

One of them takes what looks-and smells-like a piece of fish out of his lunchbox and puts it inside the hat, waving it around like a trophy. Idiot, I think. Surprisingly, I almost feel angry with him. Just because it's not the best-looking hat in the world doesn't mean I want to see it used as a fish-basket.

What frightens me is how readily I realize I _want_ to be angry with him. Not because of the hat and the fish. Because I want to feel something. I want this gnawing at my stomach to go away. Hurting would be better than feeling numb day after day. I've felt numb all summer. Now, for one passing moment, I'm truly mad-I want to hit something. The rage subsides within a few seconds. I do not react.

The one not stinking up my hat with fish nudges me roughly.

In my head I shout awful things at him. None of my thoughts, flashing by so quickly before my brain goes quiet again, reach my mouth. My lips don't even part. Out loud, I say nothing. I don't know if they have any idea what I've been through, I don't even know if they know who I am, or if they're in the same year I am. Thing is, I don't care-about any of it.

We come to a stop. The boys get out. I think they are following me. Of course they are. I realize how stupid I'm being. They're going the same way I am. They aren't going to bother me. I think one of them threw my hat in a dustbin, and now that their moment of jeering and merry-making is over, I'm just another kid from their school. I bet they're so dense they need help finding it to begin with. I almost feel sorry for them.

When we reach the school, the boys' friends greet them by swearing and tossing potato chips at their heads. The one who stole my hat picks up a chip off the ground and eats it. He swallows an ant by mistake and nearly chokes on it. The cursers all flock to see the show. When he survives this unpleasant experience, they clap him on the back like he's King David returning from fighting Goliath. A strange form of group-initiation? Or just plan idiocy on the rise? Both? I can't tell.

Waiting for the bell to ring, I settle down on a stone step in front of the building.

Flash! Someone's taken a picture of me.

"Name?" says a voice above me.

I glance up. Two blonde boys-identical twins-are staring at me expectantly. One of them has a camera hanging from a strap around his neck.

"Maybe I should box him," whispers the one without the camera.

I notice an interesting feature about him that does not match his brother.

"You're missing a tooth," I mutter under my breath, barely even speaking to him.

"Yeah, I lost it in a fight," he explains in a hurry. "A boy made a beastly joke about Susan Pevensie, so I knocked him down."

Susan Pevensie. It takes a minute for that name to register. Oh, yeah, I know her. She's a bit older than I am. She is considered the school beauty; pretty much all of the guys here are in love with her. I think this is her last year before she tries for a university. She'll probably get in, too. Every Professor on the planet adores her. Even if she is a bit of a know-it-all and her grades are only so-so in most classes. Her vocabulary, however, is excellent; she likes to use big words.

We used to be friends-Susan and I-when we were little kids, but we drifted apart years ago. It was all because she stopped caring about anything that wasn't nylons, lipsticks, or invitations to parties. I mean, it's one thing to put up with a chum who knows everything and has no problem pointing out when she thinks-or, rather, according to her, _knows_ -you're wrong. It's annoying some of the time, but it has proven helpful upon certain occasions as well. Vanity on the other hand makes a person unbearable. And you can't really give a girl everybody loves a good what-for; God forbid you should make her cry!

"I'm Corin, by the way," says the toothless-wonder. He points to his brother. "That's Cor."

I nod.

"What's your name?"

Are they on something? What's with these two? Can't they go take pictures of, I don't know, the leaves changing colours, and leave me alone?

"It's for the yearbook," Cor tells me.

Oh, yes, I'm sure everyone wants to see a picture of me sitting on the steps, squinting in the sun, and looking unkempt. That's got to be a happy school memory they're going to cherish for life and share with their children. Um, not.

I finally get the hint that they aren't going to take no for an answer. They want my name.

"Edmund," I mutter, "Edmund Justaciturn."

"See?" says Corin, jokingly. "Now I don't have to box you."

He's trying to be nice, I think, I should say something. But no words come out of my mouth. Instead, my mind comes up with a nickname for him. Nothing I'll probably ever call him to his face, but something that will definitely pop up every time I see him. I call him Thunder-Fist.

Thunder-Fist's brother says something else; but I've spaced out. I think it was goodbye. They were both gone three seconds afterwards.

I'm tired. Strange to think that I had never felt so empty before. It was as if a simple conversation was slowly zapping whatever drops of life still pulsed through me. What would happen, I wonder, if I really talked? What if I became less monosyllabic? Would that be the end of me? Could be. It could be and I am not even sure if anyone would care. My parents might miss me, but, hey, they're young; they can have more children if they want. Besides I don't like them right now. It's nothing personal. I'm certainly not trying to discriminate, I just hate everyone in general.

Without thinking, I reach into my satchel and pull out my apple. My fingers brush against the novel as I do so. As though they can feel through binding and paper, sensing the burning petals of what I know now is pressed between the pages, they tingle.

I ignore this sensation and bring the apple to my lips. The smell of apple makes me think of orchards. I've never actually been inside an orchard before in my life, but I imagine the smell would be exactly the same, only stronger. Once I promised someone that one day when I was older I would buy them a house with an apple orchard on the property. Sounds silly, I know, but that's what I said. The scariest part? I meant it. I was dead-serious. If the world hadn't come to an end since then, that is exactly what I would still be planning to do in the future.

Don't think about her. Don't think about her. Don't think about her. But my eyes are shut and she always waits there behind my closed lids. I can't help myself.

And here it comes...

* * *

The glass-front oak door with the white-lace curtains started to open as Lucy Valiant laughed and turned the key in the lock.

It was Edmund who had made her laugh, standing right behind her, his satchel hanging limply over one shoulder.

"Are you timing those comments so that I turn the key the wrong way?" she asked him, still giggling, turning her head slightly to give him a pretend-hard look.

"What comments?" His eyes widened with faux-innocence. "I say, Lu, it's hardly _my_ fault if you can't open a simple door."

"And those weird Jackdaw jokes you've been telling one after another?"

"Merely passing the time while you figure out how to turn a lock."

Lucy stuck her tongue out at him.

"All right," he gave in, sighing with forced depth and slipping his arms around her waist, brushing lightly against the sleeves of the school sweater she'd tied around it. "You win. I was being impossible. Call it Pax?"

"Of course," said Lucy. "Now will you please let me open the door?"

"Nothing's stopping you."

"Ed, you're still holding onto my waist."

"Since when do you open doors with your waist?"

Rolling her eyes, Lucy turned the key again, working around the young man clinging to her.

"Say, Lucy?" he sounded a little anxious.

"Yes?"

"Why is there some creepy lady with binoculars staring at us and scowling over on the porch next door?"

"That's just Mrs. Scrubb," said Lucy, absently. "You know she spies on everybody."

"Old Alberta!" chuckled Edmund, recognizing the thin-boned, sour-faced woman they'd known since they were little. "She finally got a haircut. I thought the Scrubbs were against them-Eustace's hair almost touched his shoulders for a while there."

Lucy corrected him, finally getting the door open all the way. "No, that was last year, this year they're against closing windows."

Edmund let go of her waist so she could walk inside, following her a pace or so behind.

"Father! Mum! I'm home!" Lucy called into the spacious entryway with the springy sky-blue carpet lining the floors and baseboard.

"Mr. and Mrs. Valiant?" Edmund shouted when they didn't get a reply after a couple of minutes.

"Who's that?" roared her father's voice from his study a few rooms away.

"It's Edmund," Lucy told him.

A very unexcited, depleted, utterly-despairing, "Oh, God." came back.

"This is getting pretty steep," muttered Edmund.

"How do you mean?" Lucy blinked at him.

"That your parents _still_ hate me."

"They don't," she said a little too quickly.

Edmund cocked his head in a who-do-you-think-you're-kidding fashion.

"They really don't, Ed, they've known you since you were a baby."

"What difference does that make?" said Edmund, stubbornly. "They don't like me."

Lucy lowered her eyes and glanced at him shyly out of the corners of them. " _I_ like you."

He grinned and pulled playfully at one of her pigtails. "Even when I'm being difficult?"

"I like you because you're you, Edmund." She leaned on one of his shoulders and he let the pigtail go. "Difficult or not."

His arm ended up around her shoulder and they walked into the living room. It was well-furnished with cherry-wood bookcases; and in the centre there was a white china-tea table with a glass chessboard. The chessmen were made of gleaming solid brass so well-polished that they looked more like gold.

As they plopped down together on the black leather couch, Lucy grabbed an apple from the small crystal bowl beside the chessboard.

"One day I want to grow my own apples," Lucy told him.

"Eh?" This was new.

"My parents took me to an apple orchard once when I was six and I loved it. One day, I'm going to have my own."

"Hmm," said Edmund, brooding pensively.

"What?"

"I was just thinking, I suppose that means I'll have to buy you a house with an orchard in the back someday."

Lucy blushed and squeezed his hand. "Where would _you_ live, though?"

"With you, of course!" exclaimed Edmund.

"With me?" she echoed.

Leaning forward, he took two of the brass chessmen, one king and one queen, off of the board and held them in his hand. "The king and queen should never be apart."

"Are you a king?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? Stranger things have happened. But, Lucy, you are my queen."

"Then that makes you my king."

With his free hand, he lightly touched the side of her face. Then, pulling away, he placed the king and queen pieces down into the apple-bowl. "Well, then your king promises you, Queen Lucy, someday when he's older he will buy a house with an apple orchard."

"Ahem," coughed Lucy's mother, Helen Valiant, as she entered the room. "Do either of you care to tell me why there are chessmen in the apple bowl?"

Lucy's eyes shifted involuntarily towards Edmund, and she struggled to keep her laughter in check by pressing her lips tightly together.

"I put them there, Mrs. Valiant," Edmund confessed, reaching into the bowl to take the brass pieces out of it, setting them back neatly on the chessboard like a good boy. "Sorry."

"You're a very strange child, Edmund," said Helen, crinkling her brow. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

* * *

I am snapped out of it. The sound of the bell rattles me out of my memory. I toss the apple into the first waste-basket I come across in the hallway. It still tastes like sawdust. My stomach hurts.


	2. Meet the Teachers

The first class of the day is science. Nothing too bad, I think. That is, until I see the teacher.

Clearly six-foot without heels, taller still in them, she is the sort of woman who could literally cause a little kid to pee their pants with one hard stare, making them feel like their insides have turned to stone. Her eyes are ice-blue and she has these super-long white fingers. I swear there must be something wrong with this woman's skin. It's not that she looks pale, she doesn't. She just looks very, very white. You know, like sugar or a blank sheet of paper. This would be bad enough if she was wearing a contrasting, dark colour, but, no, she wears solid white from head to toe. Her pantsuit is white, her jacket is white, even her shoes, are-you guessed it-white!

I make a mental note to never, under any circumstances, do anything in class that will involve her learning my name.

She picks up a chalk (I swear it is the same exact colour as her hand) and it squeaks across the blackboard as she scrawls her name. _Miss Jadis_.

Even though, overt scariness put aside, Miss Jadis is actually a very attractive woman, what with her red lips and nicely constructed features, I don't think anyone was surprised that she wasn't married. I mean, her hypothetical husband would have to crawl around like a beaten dog; and one day he'd be bound to roll over in bed, get a good look at her, realize how frightening she really is, and have a heart attack right then and there. Poor chap.

No one in class talks. I think they're all as scared of her as I am. Still, as soon as we have taken out our text books, some dare-devil decides it's okay to eat in the scary-teacher's class and pulls some sort of wrapped candy out of his backpack. I am amazed that Miss Jadis doesn't bring her ruler (a freakishly strong silver-coloured thing that looks sort of like a witch's wand) slamming down on his desk.

Maybe he's skipped her notice. If so, he's the luckiest son of a gun I've ever seen.

There are two teacher's assistants. One of them is a tall, lanky old fellow with grayish-white hair that looks like a fuzzy mop. His name is Mr. Ketterley. He seems to like whisper-shouting, "Dem!" every time he stubs his toe on the side of a desk or ends up with a staple in his thumb. The other is a squat little dwarf with squinty eyes. I think I like Trumpkin from the subway better as far as dwarfs go; this one, Mr. Ginarrbrik, keeps directing a sneering-look in my general direction.

After a few minutes, the snacker, our fearless leader, is worried he's going to get caught. So when he is finished stuffing his face, he chucks the wrapper at the back of my head. His poor aim causes him to miss, and it bounces into my lap instead. Great.

I glance down at the wrapper on my thigh. Turkish Delight. Major yuck!

When I was little, I used to love Turkish Delight. And I mean _love_ it. But when I was nine or ten years old I ate too much of it when no one was looking and got really sick; the doctor had to pump my stomach and everything. I think I may be the first child in the history of the world to have nearly died from a candy overdose. Since then I haven't been able to stand the stuff.

Scowling, I flick the wrapper onto the floor.

Miss Jadis spins around and her eyes focus on me. Oh, of course she saw _that_ and not it getting flung at my head in the first place. And since when can people see things when their backs are turned? That's what I would like to know. It's almost like...like a witch or something. My thoughts dub her the White Witch.

"You!" she snaps. "What's your name?"

So much for my mental note...

I can't answer, my throat is so dry. Besides, I think my inner-child just fainted.

"I see you are an idiot, whatever your name is."

Ha ha, very funny.

The other kids want to snicker at my discomfort, I'm sure, but they're scared stiff of her wrath turning upon them next. They might be a little smarter than I give them credit for.

"Tell me your name at once or I will lose my patience."

I swallow hard.

"I'm-I'm..." I'm not getting off to a very good start.

She sure holds that ruler pretty firmly in her hands...I don't like seeing her long fingers wrapping so securely around it.

"...my name's Edmund," I finally croak out.

"Surname?"

"...Uh..."

The bell rings. Thank goodness.

Miss Jadis glances away for a split-second, and I bolt.

I hate science class. I wish I could drop the course.

Music is next.

I am seriously hoping that the students will go nuts on the instruments in the class-the really loud ones, drums and cymbals-and that the teacher will flip out and make us write lines or something. English teachers tend to check after class when it comes to 'I will not (insert offense here)' papers; Music teachers, I've noticed, not as much. And if we're not going to be checked up on, I might as well try taking a nap until the bell rings again.

Unfortunately for me, the teacher doesn't punish anyone, he just strolls in a little late, apologizes, smiles and starts talking about the beauty of...my mind drones out his speech of the stories of mythical fauns dancing with dryads all night. I thought this was Music, not a course on Greek Myths.

He writes his name on a white-board with washable markers. _Mr. Tumnus._

Pretending to be fascinated by a music-sheet copy someone has just put in front of me, I peek over at this Mr. Tumnus chap. He's sort of ugly, but not in the common gruesome way. And though he certainly is on the short side, he's no Mr. Ginarrbrik. His skin is reddish. I bet he has Native American in his bloodline somewhere, but his hair isn't black, it's barely even dark. It is curly, a little shaggy, and plain brown. He doesn't seem scary at all.

Actually, for a second, I imagine him as one of those fauns he was talking about; with goat-legs and a pair of horns on top of his head. A chuckle escapes me. Quickly, I pretend to be clearing my throat.

A few more classes, nothing I paid real attention to, go by, and so then it's time for lunch. I don't know what to do with myself. I'm still not hungry.

For a moment I debate sitting with Thunder-fist and his twin. I can see them sitting with a dark-complexioned girl who eats like she's performing a ballet. Small, perfect bites. Aravis something or other, her name was, I think. I remember her being in one of my classes. Not the White Witch's, I'm pretty sure, it could have been Music or English.

Speak of the devil! The White Witch has cafeteria duty. Darn it! I can't let myself be seen. She'll probably remember me and ask for my surname again. I don't wait for her to notice me; I make a run for it.

I wind up hiding out in a smelly bathroom stall, praying that yellow stuff on the floor is just rusty water.

Outside the stall, over by the urinals, I can hear three boys arguing. One of them really has to pee and cannot concentrate with the other two pacing back and forth. I gather they are hiding from the White Witch, too. There's a random curse word or two, followed by a roll of toilet paper getting hurled around. It gets stuck on top of the rafters. A fight ensues.

In the midst of kicking, punch throwing, and back-riding like bucking-broncos, I slip out of the stall unnoticed upon hearing the bell. It makes no difference to them as I quickly and quietly wash my hands. Pee-boy starts insisting that they broke his nose and the other two tell him to shut up and that his parents were never married.

The scary thing is they'll probably all be cool with each other by next period. That's the way it can be with us guys sometimes. Girls hate each other for ever. When they're in their thirties they still stab one another's backs and say things like, "Did you see what that cow was wearing?" Boys on the other hand beat the living daylights out of their best chums and then go visit them in the hospital asking if they want to go out for a beer as soon as they get out of their full-body cast.

I have to run to make it to History class on time.

My History teacher (nay, he doesn't like us calling him that, ergo he's my History _Professor_ ) looks like he belongs at the beginning of a fantasy movie. He is just like those old, white-haired men who are the gate-keepers of the secret world or the sacred book, right down to that freakish, knowing sort of nod he gives everyone as they enter the classroom. Creepy. Not frightening, exactly, but creepy.

His suit is tweed and old-fashioned; and he smokes a pipe in class even though apparently the school-board has told him not to countless times. Seriously, though, who smokes pipes anymore? I mean, okay, I could excuse a cigar, maybe, but a pipe? Whatever.

Anyway, pipe-man is called Professor Kirke. Must remember to think of a nickname for him later.

I half-listen while he prattles on about the War of the Roses and then some gibberish about the Tudor court. Uh-huh, sure, that's going to be important. Every employer will want to be sure you can name all of King Henry's doomed wives. I focus on the silver-apple-shaped tobacco holder on his desk. I bet this professor thinks tobacco ash is good for the carpets; he's dropped enough of it on the school's rug anyway.

Though I'd never admit I know this, especially after how hard I tried not to pay attention: Katherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Katherine Howard, and...drum roll, please...Catherine Parr. Try not to hold it against me.

Some comedian a row or so behind me nicknames the fourth queen 'Anne of Cleavage'. Professor Kirke does not find this amusing. Jerry Seinfeld wannabe gets everyone extra homework and a thousand word essay on the events leading up to Anne Boleyn's execution. The whole class yells at him outside in the hall and tells him he had better learn to sleep with his eyes open.

Maybe this is why Jerry was in jail at the end of that show?

The last class of the day is Art. This teacher is younger than the others I've seen today. My guess is he's the youngest in the whole building. Mid-twenties, maybe. He is tallish with blonde hair and blue eyes. Something must have happened to his leg because he's limping and clinging to a crutch.

What I can't stop wondering is where I've seen him before. Because, I swear, I know this man! I wonder if he was nerdy as child and grew out of it until no one could recognize him, and that's why I can't place his face anywhere.

Hmm.

Before class starts, all the students still taking their seats, he is cleaning the blackboard.

I notice stand-up boy is wet; looks like he got his head put in a toilet and flushed since History. Yikes, rough audience.

In walks Susan Pevensie. She looks stunning, as usual, and a few boys whistle at her. I wonder what she's doing in this class since she's not in our year.

The Art teacher is strangely protective of Susan, he zeros in on the whistling boys and orders, "No commentary, please."

"The office said to give this to you, Peter." Susan says, handing the teacher a note.

He fake-coughs, "Mr. Pevensie!"

She rolls her eyes.

Ding! Ding! Ding! I know where I've seen him before. Our new Art teacher is Susan's brother! We didn't know each other all that well growing up because he was a lot older than me, quite a bit older than his sister, even. Also, he was considered a child prodigy by his mother and was sent off to boarding school to reach his 'full potential' at six years old. We only saw him when he came home for the holidays. Lucy really liked him because he used to tell her stories and cut out paper flowers for her. (Dang it, I hadn't meant to think about her again.)

Funny, I thought Susan's brother was going to be a doctor or a lawyer. An Art teacher? Wow, I bet my theory that the world ended the day of the railway accident, and now I'm stuck operating in some bizarre alternate reality is true after all. How else do you explain old Peter the Magnificent teaching Art at a really crummy school?

Mr. Pevensie reads the note Susan handed him, mutters, "Hang it all!" under his breath, and scowls angrily for a full three minutes. It turns out to be a budget issue. Not only are they lowering his pay, they're also not giving him half of the new supplies he needs for his classes.

"See, over time the budget went-" begins Susan.

"Oh, shut up," he tells her.

I don't think he would talk to other students that way and keep his job for very long, but, hey, Susan's his sister. He can talk to her however he wants. And if the White Witch can call people idiots, I can't imagine Peter getting canned for a simple, "Shut up."

"Go to whatever class you have now, or I'll tell Mum." It doesn't sound as mean as one might think; Peter says it with affection.

Susan sticks out her tongue at him, turns on her heels, and leaves.

When she is gone, Peter introduces himself and writes _Mr. Pevensie_ on the board as if we haven't already guessed who he is.

"All right, so here's how it's going to work in my class," he tells us, taking a step away from the board, leaning quite heavily on that crutch of his. "I will give each student one word, a topic, emotion, or genre, and you have to spend the whole year finding out what it means to you and how to turn it into art."

I am still trying to guess how he got injured. Perhaps he hit his head, too. His idea of Art-class is a little out there. We have to focus on one word all year? Where do smarty-pants people come up with this stuff?

Ignoring a few moans of protest from those who thought Art class was just doodling pictures of monsters eating buildings for forty-five minutes, getting a lowish grade, and having their parents not care because it's 'only Art class', Mr. Pevensie places a slip of paper in front of each student.

Eager hands flip them over to find out their word.

A boy with shoulder-length dark hair and a thick accent I can't place raises his hand.

"Yes...uh..." Peter doesn't know the kid's name. Transfer student, I think.

"Caspian," he tells him.

"Is there a problem, Caspian?"

He nods. "Can I trade my word?"

"Why?" Mr. Pevensie looks annoyed.

"It says 'family'."

"Yes, so?"

Apparently Caspian's parents died when he was little, and so he was raised by his uncle who recently tried to kill him. He says he is finally getting over the trauma and doesn't want to go back into therapy.

Peter blinks at him. "I'm sorry to hear that, Caspian, but fear makes wonderful artists."

A girl named Lasaraleen who has a dark complexion like Aravis raises her hand next.

"Yes?" sighs Peter.

Her slip of paper just says, 'work'. She wants 'love' instead so she can draw pretty pink hearts.

" _No_ , absolutely not." He is unmoved.

Amidst all the whines of, "No fair!" coming from Caspian and Lasaraleen, I realize I haven't looked at my slip yet.

It says 'Fantasy'.

Lovely, now I'm going to be stuck drawing stupid elves all year. That's probably going to get me beat-up, too. Why didn't Mr. Magnificent _think_ before he passed these out?

"Pray take that surly look off of your face, Mr. Justaciturn," says Peter, in a tired-sounding voice.

Figures he'd know who I was.

I glare at him. How am I getting in trouble without saying anything? I'm the only one being good in the whole class.

"Please remember that your assignment is not to draw stereotypes, Edmund." Peter's eyes lock in on me. Evidently he can read minds. "I'm not expecting giggling fairies, I'm expecting you to be able to tell me, through art, what that word means to you by the end of the year."

Yeah, yeah, yeah. He still stinks as a teacher. Why don't his parents just send him back to medical school where he belongs?

When I get home at the end of the day, I'm exhausted.

I spent the whole subway ride wondering how to avoid my parents', "How was your day?" chatter, since talking was still the last thing I wanted to do, but it turns out I needn't have bothered.

Mother and Father are arguing in the pantry about some bill that came in. While she yells at my dad, Mum is on her mobile with someone else-probably someone she works with or else a company person she is trying to resolve the whole bill issue with-and has to keep saying into the receiver, "No, not you, April." every time she calls him a mean name.

So I slink upstairs to my bedroom unnoticed. Thank heavens.

This isn't the first time my parents have argued. They must really love each other because they disagree about _everything_ and haven't even mentioned getting a divorce. From what I hear they fought a lot during their courtship, too, though, so they probably knew what they were getting into. Still, maybe they shouldn't have had me. Putting a kid in the middle of constant fighting is what keeps therapists in business. Well, that and apparently Caspian from Art class.

I jump into my bed and pull the covers up to my chin. I hope my father doesn't barge in later without knocking and demand to know if I've done my homework or not. If I pretend to be asleep, that might actually work with Mum, but he doesn't play that game.

They're still shouting back and forth.

It comes back to me. The fight they had right after the world ended.

* * *

"No!" shouted Mrs. Justaciturn. "I am not having Edmund walking into some bloody blasted morgue, her parents can identify her."

"The police are having trouble getting through to her parents mobiles right now," said her husband, huffily. "They need someone to go down there and tell them whether or not the girl they found is Lucy Valiant."

"Well my son isn't going in there."

" _Our_ son," said Mr. Justaciturn. "And I think we should cooperate with the police."

* * *

I think the audio-tape of that argument broke in my brain, because it likes to start playing the same phrases over and over again at random moments like a broken record.

I want to throw up.

Eventually I figure my parents will want to know I'm home, so I blast the stereo in my room even though I could care less about the rock music that makes little mini earthquakes tremor through my walls. At least its better than remembering, even if it does leave me with a beastly headache afterwards


	3. School Wars

I make it through History, English, and Math without any problems. I don't raise my hand, no one calls on me. I don't say anything leaving the classrooms, no one talks to me. Fine, good, perfect. Just the way it ought to be.

But I should have known my luck would run out. Science comes after Math, and Miss Jadis is looking particularly icy.

At first, I try to sneak into the back row, but she sees me and says, "Oh no you don't."

I wince and freeze. I am not disobeying her, I stop edging towards the back.

"In the front, Justaciturn, I'm keeping an eye on you."

I wonder how she found out my surname. Probably I'm the only student named Edmund in this class. Not hard to figure out. She may be a total witch, but that doesn't make her an idiot. Idiots aren't usually hired to teach science classes; they could blow something up with chemicals and cost the school a lot of money.

Shuddering, I stumble over to the desk she points at with her wand-ruler and plop down into the seat.

For forty-five minutes, I am her victim. She asks question after question straight from the text-book, calls only on me even though I don't raise my hand, and embarrasses me in front of the rest of the students when I don't (no kidding) know the answers. Worse, even when I actually try to answer, just hoping it will lighten up the load a bit, my voice fails me. I don't talk a lot anymore. I've made my speech as sparing as possible, what with the world ending and all that. Silence is golden, you know. So I just swallow hard and my lips tremble like they belong to a crying four-year-old.

If it were any other class everyone would have been roaring with laughter at my expense. Thankfully, the White Witch's scary-factor works in my favor for once, and they all save their snickers until the bell rings. I know that, by then, I'll be sprinting as far away from anyone who saw my humiliation as possible.

The classroom door creaks open. Selfishly, I find myself hoping it's some kid coming in really late so that the White Witch will forget about me and pounce on them. Then I'll be able to take a breather. Horrible, I know, but I don't care. Not now.

It isn't someone coming in late after all; it's Susan Pevensie. Another teacher sent her to make copies of a spread-sheet.

The White Witch stares at her very hard, demands to see her hall-pass, studies it as intently as a paleontologist examining a newly found fossil, then finally says, "The copy machine is over there."

I glance over to where she pointed. I'm amazed. Since when does the science room have a copy machine? I bet Miss Jadis just really wanted one for some unexplainable reason and the school-board was too scared to tell her no. That has to be it.

The White Witch turns back on me. She makes a rude remark regarding my intelligence and asks a semi-complicated question about how snow crystallizes. The worst thing of all is, I know the answer, I learned it last year. My tongue is so heavy. I can't even get a simple, "Um," out.

"Well, since Edmund Justaciturn doesn't know the answer, perhaps he should be given more homework. He obviously doesn't study enough."

A couple of kiss-up students grin unsurely. I think they are half-afraid she'll spin around, slam her magic-ruler on their desk, and turn them into social frogs for the rest of the year, but since she's so intent on ruining _my_ life and not theirs at the moment, they are getting a little bolder.

The White Witch smiles her cold smile at me. I feel like I've been frost-bitten. It's impossible to keep on looking at her, I need to find someone else to take in if only for a moment. The clock is ticking down like a magical bomb; soon this will all be over.

Susan Pevensie has finished making her copies and is neatly pressing them into a manila folder. She has white hands, too, just like Miss Jadis. But her eyes aren't so cold, they're almost sympathetic. For one horrible moment I wonder if the White Witch was born wicked or if she was ever like Susan once. Was there a chance the witch was even like _me_ once upon a time? Did she just suffer in silence, screaming her lungs off on the inside until she snapped into the personification of pure evil? Nah. I can't see it.

The bell finally rings. It is two full seconds late. I feel like lodging a formal protest because of this.

As soon as I reach my locker, I fumble with the combination, snap the lock open the wrong way, hurt my fingers, curse inwardly, finally get the bloody door open, and stuff a dozen or so textbooks in there. I shove my science work in the way back. I'm not going to do it. Any of it. She wants to ruin my life? Well, it's already over. I'm scared of her, oh, bully yes, you can bet on it. But not scared enough that I'm going to waste my time doing work she's throwing at me for no reason. She wants to kill me? Well, tough luck. Maybe witches have a hard time telling this about people because they don't have hearts, but I'm already dead inside.

Frustrated, I slam the locker shut.

Standing there, behind the door, waiting, waiting to talk to me, is Susan Pevensie. She's dropped off her copies and she says she wanted to see if I was all right.

"Mmm," I more or less grunt.

"You shouldn't let her get to you," says Susan; "she's just a bully, everybody says so."

"Uh-huh," I say, not looking at her. (Ooh, that almost sounded like an actual word!)

She lowers her voice. "I hear Miss Jadis picks on Mr. Tumnus the Music Teacher all the time."

"Mr. Tumnus is a fruitcake."

She crinkles her brow. "No he's not. He's a very accomplished musician."

Whatever.

"Anyway," I look up just in time to see her toss part of her glossy dark hair over one shoulder, "I heard a rumour that she tried to blackmail Professor Kirke once-something to do with his mother, they said."

"Professor Kirke's tough." My throat still aches and I don't _want_ to talk, but it's a little easier talking to Susan right now for some reason.

"Oh, I think he's an old dear."

I roll my eyes. Why is everyone in love with Susan Pevensie? I mean, sure, she's ridiculously attractive and all that, but she talks like she's somebody's mother, for pity's sake.

A nerdy boy starts coming towards us.

Susan notices him-clearly someone too unpopular to grace her awesome presence-grimaces, turns her head, and whispers, "Pretend you're talking to me."

"I _am_ talking to you," I point out in a low grumble.

She doesn't reply to this.

I get bored of waiting, so I shrug my shoulders and walk away.

It's almost time for lunch. Today, I've brought lunch from home in a paper bag. I don't know what I was trying to avoid, it's not like it's mystery-meat day or anything, I just felt strangely compelled to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when I couldn't fall asleep last night and then I didn't even bother eating it afterwards. So I figured I'd just bring it to school with me today. Mum would be so proud, I think, wanting to gag. She hates when I waste food.

The last place I want to be is the cafeteria; with my luck the White Witch will be there again. Even if she's not, it isn't as if I have anybody to sit with. It's not like I have any friends. Thunder-fist and his brother are all right, I guess, but I get the feeling they're going to want me to talk eventually if I start to spend a lot of time with them. So I avoid them just like I avoid pretty much everybody else.

I drag my feet. My fingers clutch and crinkle the top of my paper-bag. There's no one else in the hallway besides me now. Everyone else was starving, if not to eat, then to gossip.

I used to be like that. Not the gossiping part, of course, but I used to have friends. I used to have a life.

Before the world ended, there were days when I would eat two lunches. I'd sit with my best class chums for our assigned lunchtime and we'd usually have a food fight or someone would steal my slice of buttered bread right off my tray. We'd make pathetic jokes and throw tinfoil balls and shout things at passersby.

Then after, I'd ditch whatever class I had next and duck under one of the seats until the younger years were going to have their lunches. When my girlfriend showed up, I would go and sit with her. We talked and ate like civilized people. The cafeteria ladies knew I did this from time to time but didn't can me because they thought it was romantic. One of them even convinced a substitute teacher to write me a late-pass upon two separate occasions.

Before I am in real danger of remembering her, remembering Lucy, a _crack_ followed by a booming, very heavy-sounding _thud_ comes from behind me.

I turn around. It's Mr. Pevensie the Art teacher. He fell down. Apparently some jerk sawed half-way through the bottom of his crutch when he wasn't looking, so that when he brought his weight down on it the wood split in two and he took a massive digger. Poor chap. His books and grading papers are all spread out on the floor around him.

Part of me wants to ignore him and keep going. Think ice, think distance. I'm not any good at helping people these days.

My feet don't listen to my brain telling them to keep moving. They want me to go back and help Mr. Pevensie anyway. I don't have to like him or talk to him to help him up. Common sense, Edmund, I think, common courtesy. Fine. I'll do it.

I walk over to Peter and help him pick up all his books and get back on his feet. He has to lean against the wall because of his bad leg. Anyone else would have asked if he was okay, but I just kind of grunt. I hope he doesn't think I was the one who messed up his crutch or anything; I wouldn't do that. Yeah, I'm the quiet, depressed, weird kid who's going through a thing right now, but I wouldn't try to hurt a teacher. I hope he knows that.

He knows. As soon as he has caught his breath, he smiles and thanks me.

I clear my throat instead of replying.

"Can you give me a lift back to my classroom?" Peter asks apologetically.

Oh, yeah, he can't walk now. That's just great. I certainly hope the idiot who thought it would be a jolly good prank to make an injured teacher fall flat on his face is happy.

Nothing else for it, I let him grab onto one of my shoulders. He winces in pain, pulling his weight off of his hurt leg, and follows my lead towards the Art room.

Once I have helped him over to his desk, I linger for a few moments. The cafeteria is still one of last places I want to be right about now.

Noticing my reluctance, Mr. Pevensie eyes my crumpled paper-bag and says, "You can eat in here if you want."

That has got to be against school rules, but personally I think they owe it to the guy. I mean, first the budget and pay cuts and now he nearly breaks his neck. I say cut the poor teacher a break.

Wordlessly, I nod and sit down at one of the tables. As I nibble mindlessly at my tasteless sandwich, I see Peter take out a candy-bar, peel back the wrapper and bite into it. I am a little surprised. I always rather figured that Peter would be something of a health-food nut. Not, you know, exactly like his sister, not in that girly, "Do you know how many calories are in that?" sort of way, but I just imagined him to be more of a good-eater in general. Whole grains, fruit cocktails, pizza made from that weird pale-brown dough with that rough thick wheat texture...all that so-called good stuff.

Still, I guess his weakness for chocolate is no more shocking than his being an Art teacher to begin with.

It occurs to me that it's a little strange, too, that the Art teacher wouldn't eat with the rest of the teachers. That he would eat in here all alone with a sullen student. Unless, provided, he already had an earlier lunch and is just snacking and keeping me company. I don't know if I want to smile at him for this, if it really is the case, or hit him.

I force my way through about a quarter's worth of my sandwich before giving up and tossing it into the dustbin. It lands in-between a piece of yellow gum and a piece of pink wrapping paper.

"If you want to draw something," says Peter, glancing at me as I stare idly into space, "you can get a sketch-pad from the draws over there." His finger points to a shelf that also contains some old-looking paintbrushes with bad split-ends.

As if I _want_ to waste my time.

All the same, I guess if I got caught in here by the headmaster, or the White Witch, or someone else who might try to give Peter the sack, it wouldn't hurt for them to find me working. You can't really punish a teacher for teaching, that's their job.

I sharpen a pencil, get myself a pad, and start. I've decided to try drawing a faun. Anything is better than a fairy or an elf. If I was a little girl in a pink gingham dress, yeah, maybe that would be acceptable, but come on, I'm a boy. Right-thinking males do _not_ draw fairies, the other boys will laugh at them.

Mr. Pevensie himself said he didn't want giggling fairies, I remember, greatly relieved. A faun it is!

What I know is bound to be a hideous drawing, since I probably have no artistic skill whatsoever, is started with a pair of hooves. I've never tried to draw hooves before. It's actually sort of fun; figuring out where the cloven part is supposed to be and all that.

The fun fades almost as quickly as it arrived. I know my word was 'fantasy', as in not real, but the thing is I don't know how to draw a real goat. And if I can't draw a goat, how am I supposed to draw a faun? They're half-goat, isn't that the point?

"Stuck?" Peter raises a brow at me.

How does he know?

Leaning against the desk because his crutch is broken, he picks up a book and motions for me to come and take it from him. I expect a book on some artist who painted scenes from Greek (Roman?) Myths or something. Instead I am surprised to see a photograph-filled tome on farming. What the...?

He tells me to turn to chapter nine.

I do so. Goats. I turn another page. Oh! A lot of goats.

Smiling modestly, he retreats back into his seat.

I finally figure out what I'm trying to do with the hooves, and I get to work on an outline.

I am lost in sketching lines. A cleft. A twist. Knobbiness here. Straighter angle there.

"So, are you going to try out for the school play?"

Stunned, I glance over at Mr. Pevensie with my brows furrowed. He did not seriously just ask me that.

Laughing a little, he says, "Don't like acting?"

"It's a musical," I grunt under my breath, as if that explains it. Actually, it sort of does. I'm not a singer. But I wouldn't try out for the play even if it weren't a musical.

When I was around nine or ten I was Tristan from _Tristan and Isolde_. That didn't end well. Though, come to think of it, the grown-ups all got a good laugh out of the spectacle once they got over themselves. They really should have known better than to make young children play-act a romantic tragedy. I mean, back then, I thought girls had germs. So I shoved Isolde away when she threw her arms around me. We got into a fight, me and my co-star. I made her cry and accidentally-on-purpose and knocked her garland-crown off of her head. No one bothered suggesting I play Peter Pan the next year, I think they were too scared I'd be mean to Wendy.

My chest tightens. I don't like remembering being in that disastrous play. Lucy was Isolde. She was about eight years old. There's a picture of us from that day in full costume and everything, I half-hope it melts into ash. If I ever have look at it, I might just fall apart completely.

"You're still more of a sports person, then?"

He says 'still', I notice. I think he remembers me playing cricket with him one time when he was on holiday from his boarding school. I was enjoying myself until he hit me in the side of my thigh with one of those balls when I wasn't ready (I was looking away), and then proceeded to call me 'Dolly Daydream' for the rest of the day. After that, I decided to find a _new_ sport.

"Rugger," I grumble, "I used to play rugger."

"Used to?"

"Yes, before..." I say vaguely. I wish he'd stop asking me questions. If he wants to chatter on, that's fine, I'll listen when I can and drone him out when I can't, but I don't like having to keep part of it going myself. My tongue feels heavy and my teeth keep sticking together. I barely want to think, never-mind speak.

"Not anymore?"

I shake my head; it's a little easier than forcing out a real no.

With the effort I've saved, I struggle to push all of my intensity into my drawing again so I don't remember. Don't remember afterwards, after winning-or losing-a game, _her_ coming to see me, telling me how wonderful she thought I was-no matter what.

There's something that irks me: that God was too gracious when he came up with the Pevensie siblings. You can't make yourself hate either of them. It's impossible, like those infinite numbers you simply are never going to reach the end of in mathematics. Susan's too pretty, and Peter's just too, well, good-natured.

It would be so much easier to hate her if she had, say, braces, or at least a big zit on the bridge of her nose, and if she wasn't so motherly. Hating Susan Pevensie is like hating a mother wolf protecting her cubs; only cold-blooded hunters can pull it off. And it would be a cake-walk to hate Peter if only he were a jerk. He's not a jerk. When I don't answer him, he doesn't push. Sometimes he asks too many questions, but everyone does that anyway, so it doesn't matter. There are moments when a single question is one too many for me. When I just want to go to sleep and sit with dream-people who are as mute as I feel.

If my throat didn't ache, if the world was still turning, I think I'd ask Peter how he got his injury. Also, I'd thank Susan for what she said after the White Witch made me look stupid in front of the whole class. Of course, though, I can't. I don't.

I am late leaving school. My satchel is 'accidentally' snatched from my shoulder and thrown over a fence so that I have to climb six feet of wire up and down to retrieve it. The boys who caused the misfortune are gone. Guess what else is gone by the time I reach it? The subway.

Now I have to walk home.


	4. Gray Area

Edmund Justaciturn walked up the front porch steps of the Valiants' house, feeling a little nervous. He had asked out their daughter, Lucy, and she'd said yes, she would like to go on a date with him. It was a bit of a surprise; he'd been worried she was going to say no. After all, they'd known each other most of their lives and he had built up something of a record for not being the nicest person to her in the past.

The thing was, however, he really, really liked her. And now, reaching up to ring the doorbell, he was a great deal uneasy. Her parents weren't going to be so thrilled, he thought. Well, he would just have to prove to them he wasn't a _total_ jerk and then everything might turn out all right.

There was no answer for a moment, and the air was a little nippy. Edmund shivered and waited another second, wondering if he should leave or else try knocking. Maybe the bell was broken.

The door opened and Lucy stood there. She was wearing a neat green sweater-set over a T-shirt and a pair of jeans; and her hair was parted under a silver-coloured headband.

"Hi, Edmund." She smiled at him.

"Bye, Edmund!" Mr. Valiant hopped in front of his daughter and slammed the door shut in the Justaciturn boy's face.

Stunned, Edmund stood on the porch, wondering if that was his cue to get lost. Probably it was, but he wasn't ready to give up just yet. He could hear Lucy's cry of protest on the other side of the door, followed by a sigh on Mr. Valiant's part.

The door opened again; Lucy looking apologetic, her father just looking ticked-off.

"Come on, let's get this over with." Mr. Valiant wore a fine frown in-between his lowered brows.

Edmund glanced over at Lucy; her face a little flushed. She looked really pretty, he thought. A smile found its way onto his face. She noticed it and smiled shyly back at him. His smile widened when he saw that.

Mr. Valiant's glare hardened. "Why are you smiling?" he demanded of Edmund.

"I'm just happy to be here, Sir," said Edmund, a little awkwardly.

"Well, you shouldn't be."

"Sorry, Sir."

"Don't try to get on my good side."

"Yes, Sir."

"Ed, I'm really sorry about this," Lucy told him.

He mouthed, "It's all right."

"So where are you taking us?" asked Mr. Valiant.

"Us?" Edmund repeated, confused.

"You didn't think I was going to let you go off with my daughter unsupervised, did you?"

Well, yes, that was exactly what he had thought, considering that when Lucy was four her father used to let her run up and down the streets near their house, following various different kids around all summer, relying sorely on the cuteness-factor to keep the little tag-along out of trouble. But, then, of course, Lucy wasn't four anymore. She was just barely thirteen; and a fifteen year old wanted to go out with her. Hmm...he could see her father's problem. Still, it was going to be more than a little uncomfortable having him sitting through dinner and a movie with them. Oh well, what could he do?

"Do you like, erm, sea-food, Mr. Valiant?" Edmund tried.

"No, not particularly."

Lucy twisted her neck and gave her father a pleading look.

"But, it sounds sort of nice," he amended.

Edmund breathed a sigh of relief.

"You didn't bring your motorcycle, did you?"

"I don't have a motorcycle," he pointed out.

"I told you he didn't!" Lucy said to her father. (He was sort of old-school, believing that all so-called 'bad boys' drove motorcycles.)

"No stolen car?"

"I can't drive, Sir."

"Where's this restaurant we're eating at?"

"Two blocks away, Sir, we were going to walk."

"Let me get my car-keys, I'll take us all there."

"Edmund, I didn't know he wanted to come," Lucy said as soon as her father was out of sight. "He almost didn't let me go with you at all."

"No, it's fine, really," he assured her. He wanted to put a hand on the side of her arm as he said this, but was too worried her father would come back, see them, drag Lucy inside, and slam the door on his face again.

They spent the ride to the sea-food restaurant in utter silence. Edmund would have very much liked to talk to Lucy, but it was kind of difficult to think of anything to say when he could see Mr. Valiant giving him the evil eye in the rear-view mirror, clear as day.

I'm just going to sit here, stare at the back of my hands, and hope he doesn't kill me, Edmund thought to himself, twiddling his thumbs.

When they arrived at the restaurant, Edmund and Lucy had a few minutes alone together while Mr. Valiant parted the car. They exchanged semi-amused glances, caught between blushing and cracking up with repressed hysterical laughter.

"Table for two?" the head-waiter asked, noticing them as he grabbed two menus from behind his podium.

"Well, actually-" stammered Edmund, remembering Mr. Valiant.

"Cute couple." The head-waiter voiced his approval uncaringly.

"We'll see," growled Mr. Valiant in a testy voice, having heard that as he walked in.

"Three then," noted the waiter, grabbing an extra menu.

There weren't any tables set up for exactly three people, so they were all led into a booth with pale blue cushions-the kind that have plastic covering over them-near a shinny, very clear, lobster tank.

Lucy picked up one of the menus the head-waiter had placed down in the centre of the table.

"Not a bad place you picked out," Mr. Valiant commented dryly.

"Was that," Edmund paused faux-dramatically, "almost a compliment?"

"Almost," he grunted. "Don't let it go to your head."

Lucy smiled over at Edmund, who winked when her father's eyes shifted to his own menu, and lightly nudged the side of her foot under the table.

"Hallo, I'm Ivy," said a voice above them, belonging to a slim girl in her mid-twenties. "I'll be your waitress this evening. You ready to order?"

"I'll have the fish and chips, and a beer." Mr. Valiant closed his menu.

"The shrimp platter and an iced tea," Lucy decided.

"Make that two," said Edmund.

"Sure thing, be right back." Ivy took their menus and walked back into the kitchen to give the chef their orders.

"So," said Mr. Valiant, breaking the silence that followed the waitress's departure, "Lucy says you play rugger."

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you party with the team afterwards?"

"Father, please!" protested Lucy, her face turning scarlet.

"Yes, sometimes I do," Edmund admitted, suddenly feeling a little ashamed.

"Wild parties?"

"No, Sir."

He raised a brow.

"A little, Sir, sorry."

"You drink?"

"Not, you know, often..." Edmund half-wanted someone from the kitchen staff to come over to their table and say, "Pardon me, customers, but the building is on fire." Not really, because he didn't want to cut-short his first-and hopefully not last-date with Lucy, but nearly anything that would have put a stop to the ensuing conversation would have been fine by him.

"You smoke?"

"No, never."

"Your mother mentioned you failed History one year," Mr. Valiant was merciless. "Do you keep up your marks fairly well these days?"

"Well, I have to, they don't let you play on the rugger team if you fail classes."

"I see."

Their food arrived and they ate without further discussion. It was rather like the car-ride there, mostly. Lucy tried to get a friendly conversation going once or twice, this time, but after a while she had to give up.

Then there was the movie. Right off the bat, Mr. Valiant ruled out a scary movie or a sad one, claiming he 'knew that trick'.

"Why don't you pick the movie, Sir?" Edmund managed to say, struggling to keep sarcasm out of his voice.

"Fine," agreed Mr. Valiant, his eyes shifting from Edmund to the movie posters on the wall of the theatre. "I think I will."

Lucy mouthed, "Nice save." to Edmund while her father's back was turned, and he mouthed, "Thank you." back.

Finally they found themselves all sitting in the 'Mr. Valiant approved' section, surprisingly with seats right next to each other, him directly behind them.

It took a little while, but eventually Edmund figured out why he had chosen to sit there instead of by their side. When, about half-way through the movie, he attempted to do the whole, 'yawn and stretch and end up with your arm around your date' bit, he felt a sharp kick to the back of his chair.

"Ow!"

"Watch it, you," hissed Mr. Valiant.

"Yes, Sir," he managed.

Glancing down, Edmund could tell, even in the dark, that the jolt had caused him to spill some of his drink into his lap.

Lucy noticed this, too, and loaned him her handkercheif since they didn't have any napkins.

Nearly an hour and a half later, they stood on Lucy's front porch, and her father said, "I'm going inside, you have exactly three minutes, and I can see you both from the window." Then he more or less slammed the door behind himself.

"So, that wasn't too awful, was it?" Lucy asked when her father was technically out of ear-shot.

"No, it wasn't, I had a good time."

Lucy squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was teasing her. "Really?"

"I enjoyed spending time with you." He noticed Mr. Valiant peeking from the nearest window, and added, "And your father."

Lucy giggled lightly.

"Well, um, I'd kiss you goodnight, but I don't have health insurance right now," said Edmund, after another pause, seeing the curtains move again from the inside of the house.

Glancing both ways very quickly, Lucy gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I have to go in now. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow at school?"

"We can sit together at lunch if you want," Edmund offered sort of shyly.

Lucy's brow crinkled. "We don't have the same lunchtime."

"So?" he shrugged his shoulders. "I'll manage it somehow."

"All right," she said.

"Oh, and this is yours." Edmund offered her back the handkerchief.

"Keep it," Lucy grinned at him. "You need it more than I do."

"Good night, Lu."

"It's been three minutes!" Mr. Valiant's voice bellowed from behind the door.

"Good night, Sir!" shouted Edmund, a little cheekily, winking at Lucy.

* * *

I hadn't meant to think of that first date. I try not to. It just sort of came into my mind as I passed the movie theatre as I walked home because I missed the subway.

Now I stand in front of my house. My feet are killing me, I want a nap. I find myself hoping my parents are in another argument. But, of course, when I need it the most, luck turns on me. They aren't fighting, they are glaring right at me, demanding to know where I've been.

"I missed the subway," I murmur.

"How could you possibly miss the subway?" my father demands. Apparently he walked to school up-hill both ways, and took the subway at the same time-and he never missed it. Not ever. In his whole life. Yeah, I'm so sure.

Here are three lies parents tell their children when they are mad at them:

1) When I was your age I worked like a dog, you should be thankful for what you have.

2) Going to school is a privilege.

3) We're not getting on your back, we just want you to learn to do things the right way in life so you don't end up living under a bridge or in prison for smuggling diamonds.

I roll my eyes.

My mother glares at me. She repeats my father's first question. How could I have missed the subway?

Sure, I guess I could explain. I could ignore my aching feet and my blood-shot eyes and the urge to crawl into a hole and never come out again. I could tell them everything. But my jaw hurts. My throat is still too dry. I don't want to talk.

So I just shrug my shoulders.

"Edmund, we aren't angry, we were just worried. Why didn't you call us on your mobile? That's what it's for." My mother holds out her hands to me.

My father clears his throat in an aggravated manner, not liking now his wife has chosen to deal with the situation. Clearly _he's_ angry and wants her to back him up.

She glares at him as if to say, "You think you can do better?"

The old 'be careful what you wish for' rings in my mind. They are going to start fighting again. I could stay and listen, wincing, while they dispute, but I won't. I'm going upstairs and pulling the covers over my head. It's only two days into school and I'm already at the breaking point. I don't bother blasting the music this time since they already know where I am.

The fight must have been pretty nasty, because no one hollers up for me when it's time for supper. When I was around eight or so, I figured out I could tell the intensity of fights by mealtimes. If Mum called me down, things were going to blow over quickly. If not, there were going to be a few bubbles left simmering for the night. By the next day, they'd be fine, but for right then and there, it was enter at your own risk. Big fight tonight, all because I was late getting home.

Not that it matters, since I don't feel hunger much these days, but after a while I get the strangest urge to _do_ something. I take out the drawing of a faun I started today when I was having lunch in the Art room. With a black coloured-pencil, I start to colour in the hooves. Then, I sharpen a small brown one that is nearly down to a nub. I am concentrating on making his furry legs brown, when my mother (in the kitchen) shouts something unexpectedly and bangs on a piece of cooking apparel. It startles me. I jump and the little brown pencil snaps. Rats! Now what? There's always the gray coloured-pencil. I start to colour in gray where the brown leaves off. After a few lines, I take in my work. Stupid, I think. It looks like he's turning into stone or something. Stupid.

I put the drawing aside; I can't look at that ghastly thing anymore. It's horrible. I wish I could drop the class. Since when am I an artist? How stupid was I to think...

My thoughts stop. Then they start again. I've fallen asleep and woken up hours later. It's pitch black in my room. My fingers flick on a light. I rub my eyes and stare down at the drawing. Somehow it doesn't look so awful now. Almost like it is supposed to be that way...supposed to be stone. Didn't Mr. Pevensie say the lesson was about learning what my word meant to me? Yeah, he's probably just saying stuff like that because he is hanging around with too many new-age weirdos or whatever, but why not use that to my advantage? Why toss the drawing? Maybe I can make something of it after all. I'll take it with me to school tomorrow, perhaps keep on working at it. If I get stuck again, Peter might loan me another book.


	5. Mental Health

It is the second week of school. I feel like I've done nothing right. Most of my homework is unfinished, I only pay attention in _some_ classes, and I ignore the numerous pleas from different P.E. coaches to re-join the rugger team. I feel like telling them that odds are they aren't going to be too thrilled with me when the end of term marks come in. When they realize I probably failed too many classes for them to allow me on the team. Either way, though, I don't have the desire to play anymore. I don't tell them this, however, I just cough absently, or pretend not to hear them. Occasionally I smile falsely and my gargoyle impressions give them the demented idea that I'm considering it. As if.

In Art class, at least, I don't feel like a total idiot. Peter doesn't pressure me into saying much, especially when we're not on a one-on-one basis. So I just sit in class and work on my faun. I really sort of like it so far. He's almost complete. My turning-to-stone faun. Except, he hasn't got a face. I wonder if Mr. Pevensie would consider it artistic if I left that part blank, or just plain lazy of me.

I don't know what a faun's face should look like. How should I know anything about faun-faces? And I don't think another farming book is going to help me.

Peter is making his rounds around the room. He limps on his new crutch as he leans over the tables and examines everybody's progress.

Caspian is drawing a smiling family with blonde hair and blue eyes. It is poorly done, for one, and very stereotypical for another. Everything is sickeningly idealistic, right down to the little red bow on the youngest girl's head. Horrid.

Seeing it, Peter clicks his tongue. "You can do better than that, I'm sure of it."

Lasaraleen has been working on a picture done with pastel oils of a bunch of people working in a candy-heart factory.

I sense Peter is not exactly impressed by her work, but he's pretty diplomatic about it. He says that at least she's putting something of her own style into it. I sense he his holding back a laugh-or a scream.

Suddenly I wish my faun was better, something he didn't have to think up a forced compliment for.

He glances down at my paper for a long while, looks at me, and states, "No emotion, Mr. Justaciturn?"

Huh? What is that supposed to mean?

"It's just a faun," Peter says. "Make it _your_ faun."

Go back to medical school, Pevensie.

In Music class, inspiration strikes. I find myself staring at Mr. Tumnus as he plays us something on a flute-like instrument. I remember imagining him as a faun the first time I saw him. A faun. A faun from my own head. I am going to use his face for my stone faun.

In my next class, I hide my drawing inside of a text-book and work on ingraining Mr. Tumnus's face into my faun.

At first I am not sure what expression I want on his face. Certainly not happiness; that is not what my drawing is about, I'm sure of it. Yet, not complete agony. I don't think that's what I mean to shoot for, either. A sad little expression. One that would make you think, "Was this a friend?" even if you didn't know the pitiful statue.

When the faun is finished, having a full face and emotion, I am surprised that there is still something incomplete. The faun is done, but something is missing. What could it be?

History gives me nothing to go on. Professor Kirke is a nice man if you can get passed his smoking habits, but he offers nothing to the piece I have my mind set on. I like having something so frustratingly distracting, I realize, because it means I have less chance of thinking about Lucy by accident.

Inspiration strikes again in science class. The White Witch with her icy glare, dressed in white-as always. Mr. Ketterley is out today, and it's just her and her dwarf. That ruler she carries like a wand and wields like a warrior, that awful, awful ruler; I day-dream about slicing it in half sometimes. Silly, I know, but I can't help it.

I eat lunch in the Art room again; Peter doesn't seem to mind. He just lets me draw. I sketch a long gown and a beautiful evil witch clutching a wand, pointed at the faun turning to stone. When I have finished her, I will add her dwarf, and he will be holding a whip.

Lunch ends. I am waiting for Mr. Pevensie to kick me out now that he has a class coming in. Not my class, no one I know. Not even anyone in the same year as me. But he doesn't tell me to leave. He sees I am on a roll and wants me to keep going.

"Isn't that Edmund Justaciturn? Why is he in-" I hear someone say, not unkindly.

Surprised that anybody has recognized me, I glance up to see who it is. Oh, Susan Pevensie-of course. Peter puts his finger to his lips, silencing her.

She smiles encouragingly at me and then gets to work on her own drawing. I don't notice what it is, I'm too focused on my witch. Her face slowly comes to resemble Miss Jadis just as much as my stone faun resembles Mr. Tumnus.

By the end of the school day, I have finished. I have a witch, a dwarf, and a faun; all with faces, all with emotion. The dwarf is dark, blandly indifferent to his mistress's gloating and the faun's stony depression. Given, it's not perfect, and I half-expect Peter to say the same thing to me as he said to Caspian earlier; that he thinks I can do better. But he does no such thing. Instead, he looks at it for a moment, studying the faces. Surely he is thinking, "Where have I seen that before?"

Then it hits him. He knows these faces. He's probably seen them at staff-meetings countless times. For a moment, his light brow lifts at me as his eyes shift from my blank expression to the more intense ones in my drawing. Then he tosses his head back and laughs and laughs and laughs.

Susan, who has returned to get a ride home from her brother, walks in, sees Mr. Pevensie laughing, sees the other students peering over at him-some with curiosity, others with deep annoyance-and leans over the table to see what all the fuss is about.

A sound that is more like a chuckle than a giggle-almost a snort-escapes her before she clamps one hand to her mouth to hold it in.

Breathlessly, she attempts to convince me that she is not laughing at it because she thinks it's poorly-done or anything. She only finds it amusing since she wasn't expecting it. Apparently neither was Peter when he gave me this assignment. He is still laughing uncontrollably. Most of the students must think he has completely lost it.

Magically, when the school Headmaster appears in the doorway, sensing merriment like a blood-hound on the trail of a fox, Peter's laugh turns into a cough and he limps over to the sink to get a drink of water. Brilliant, I think. One second he can be just Peter-Susan's brother, laughing freely. The next he can switch universes and make himself sensible Mr. Pevensie again. This is truly amazing. I must study this more closely.

The headmaster disappears. Susan looks at my drawing again. "It's great, Ed."

"I think you're on the right track," Peter tells me now that he has regained composure. "Miss Pevensie's right, it really is great."

Susan rolls her eyes at the way he says her name but continues to smile.

I'm glad they like my drawing, but I hate being around such happiness. It reminds me that there's someone else I want to share my excitement with. Sticking me like an arrow to the heart (the fantasy equivalent of a bullet-wound) is the realization that whatever good I achieve in the world will always be marred by the sickening fact that I can't share it with Lucy Valiant. That she's gone. She's never coming back.

You know, I heard that some bereaved people are known for having mental break-downs after seeing a person with a fleeting resemblance to their dead loved one, simply because, for a passing moment, they think it might all just be a horrible mistake. Maybe they didn't get a good look into the coffin when their lost one was lowered into the ground. Or they just can't help but wonder, "What if it wasn't really him/her who died? What if I was wrong?"

I don't have that problem. So I do not even have that much hope-pointless as it may be. I don't even have that to cling onto. Some of the bodies were unrecognizable. Not hers, though. No matter how badly I wanted to look the police in the eye and tell them, "Sorry, you've make a mistake, it's not her. She's not...not...well...that's not her." I couldn't. It took little more than a quick glance before I was certain beyond shadow of a doubt.

I am shaky as I raise myself up, stuffing my drawing into my satchel. I don't know what's triggered this. What could have possibly made me start thinking, start remembering. Don't remember. Don't think. Please, I am pleading with myself inwardly, I can't take it right now. I can't take it ever. Please don't. Forget. Don't recall. Forget. Forget.

Susan says something about me looking pale all of a sudden and am I all right?

No, I'm not. Yes I am, it's over. No I'm not, I hate remembering.

Peter asks if I need a ride home. He sounds so far away; his voice is only a distant echo.

I shake my head. I don't wonder, until later, when I've finally calmed down, how Peter drives with his hurt leg. Then, I wonder if he just lets Susan drive his car for him. For right now, though, I can't think. I don't want a ride. I'm out the door.

I walk like a zombie, half-awake. My thoughts are broken and hazy. I feel light-headed. Somehow I make it to the subway-on time, no less. I get on. I get off at my stop.

When I reach my house, my parents aren't home. Note on the fridge says they've gone out and that I can reach them on their mobiles if I need them. I don't check the note over to see where they've gone, I just walk up the stairs to my bedroom. I am hiding from my memories. I crawl under the bed.

When I was a little kid, small enough to fit under beds more comfortably, I used to imagine there were portals in the dark cramped spaces. That illusion was smashed when I saw Mum with her Hoover, the bed moved aside on this day, vacuuming the dust. Nothing there; just regular carpet. Still, even after that, I liked to squeeze myself under there. I'm not sure what it was-is, rather.

I thought I'd out-grown this habit, but after this past summer, well, I still squeeze myself under here sometimes. I like the dark. I like how the forest-coloured comforter is so long it makes the light that passes through green and murky. It is like a magic canopy. Lucy would say it looks like the jungle at night. Lucy. I don't want to remember.

I shut my eyes. That only makes it worse. She waits there. Not alive this time, not as I am more prone to seeing behind my eyelids. I can smell something rotten. Other people are crying, sobbing, wailing. As for me, I'm not-not yet. Then an officer grips my shoulder. I want to shrug him away; I strongly dislike being manhandled. He leads me to a stretcher (one of many in that long hallway-like room). I watch as a dusty white sheet is peeled back. Outwardly I don't speak. I've forgotten how to speak. My throat is closed. The breath is being pulled right out of me. My head pounds. Inwardly, I've been screaming since the start, and it has gotten louder since I realized, since I knew for sure. Only no one can hear it except for me. Please let this be a bad dream.

* * *

"Are you sure?" the police officer asked Edmund. "Certain?"

Edmund swallowed hard and nodded again.

The officer let go of his shoulder and sighed. "I'm sorry."

Tears in his eyes, Edmund glanced down at the stretcher again, though he could hardly bear doing so. Sadly, it was not because he doubted it was Lucy Valiant, but, rather, that he couldn't stand to ignore her. Even now, after she was gone, he hated turning away from her.

Compared to some of the other corpses in the room she didn't look particularly messy, in spite of the bruises that could be made out on her cheeks and the little blood-mark on her lower forehead. Her eyes were closed and her face under the cold, filmy gray ash was pale.

Slowly his eyes drifted down to one of her hands; she was wearing a silver laurel-ring he'd given her three weeks before.

* * *

I wake up and it is morning. I must have fallen asleep under my bed. Somehow, though, I'm on top of it now.

"Edmund?"

I blink to clear my sleepy eyes. It's my mother, looking concerned. She is holding a plastic basin of cold water in one hand and a small white dishtowel in the other, wringing it into a cold compress.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

I blink again. "Fine."

"Not sick?"

Why would I be sick?

I shake my head as she places the compress down on it. It actually feels pretty good. I am surprised to discover how warm my forehead really is. Not boiling hot, not a fever, but warmer than normal.

"What were you doing under the bed?"

I shrug my shoulders, but I'm not sure if she can tell since she's still waiting for an answer.

"What happened?" I mumble, still feeling a little tired.

"I was hoping you could tell me," says my mother, looking the slightest bit stern all of a sudden. "You were under the bed when I found you, out like a light."

I wonder if I was hyperventallting or something; that's how people make themselves pass out. It wouldn't be surprising, I was completely out of it after Art class yesterday. It's such a blur.

"I think you should stay home today." My mother pats my hand semi-awkwardly.

Growing up I was always something of a tough-boy, and unless I was bleeding or dying, I always shrugged off the whole motherly-care thing. Poor Mum, though. She does try so hard. To be honest, she was never the best at that sort of thing, never a real nurturer by nature, but she always tries.

Besides, I am not about to argue. A mental health day might be exactly what I need. No hurried hallways, no White Witch, no wondering if the headmaster is going to bust me for avoiding the cafeteria like the plague. It all sounds sort of nice, actually. Very peaceful.

I nod as my mother tells me she has to go to work. Fine, I'd rather be alone anyway.

Taking it easy, I rest in bed, sleeping on and off until well-passed noon. I have a nightmare-about _her_...about the accident...I see a crash...fire...smoke...panic...no sound, though.

I wake up sweaty and breathless; gasping and panting heavily.

Deciding I've gotten enough sleep for one sick-day, I throw back the bed covers and ditch the now-dry dishtowel, heading downstairs.

The house is so quiet. No sounds except for my own breathing and footsteps. The kitchen counter has a cup of hot chocolate out on it and a bag of marshmallows, with a little note. It's from Mum, she left them for me. Probably she was expecting me to come down sooner, maybe to get something to eat or to watch television. I feel bad about thinking she wasn't very good at being motherly, and resolve to eat a fair share of the marshmallows and to maybe have a cup of soup afterwards. That might make her happy, I think.

I nuke the hot chocolate in the microwave since it is lukewarm now, and take the marshmallows over to the couch near the television set.

Daytime TV stinks, I find out, flicking through channel after channel. I bet little kids enjoy sick-days more than teenagers do since there's all these little kiddie cartoons on every other station. Other than that, it's all talk-shows and soap operas.

_Click_

A boring movie-starlet prattles on and on about her newest film while the host pretends to listen to her, playing patience on his desk. I can tell that's what he's up to because the camera-man (who I guess must really hate him) zooms in on his cards.

_Click._

A hot blonde woman who looks like Barbie is crying because her boyfriend who was in a coma for six months forgot who she was, and, bewitched by the local gypsies, ran away with her sister's best friend's cousin. And, oh yeah, surprise, surprise, someone very close to her is pregnant. Plus also her father has died of cancer and she feels her brother might go next. Meanwhile she suspects that her sister's new neighbor is actually a vampire with a werewolf for a brother. Righty then.

_Click_

How to make double-fudge cake. The host is a woman in her early twenties who apparently doesn't know how to wear a full-shirt. She looks into the camera with this bewildered expression every three seconds, and I suspect she is not a real chef. She's probably never really baked anything in her life.

_Click_

That's enough television. I've worked half-way through the bag of marshmallows and every single one tasted like styrofoam. I manage to drink some soup, then I go back upstairs. The thought of reading a book occurs to me, but then I remember the fire-flower pressed into that novel I was reading. The world is still over. I don't want to read. I don't want to do anything.

Except maybe...I could try to draw something else. If I've got to work on that fantasy theme all year anyway, I might as well give it a go. True, I'm not certain it's the best idea after the crash I felt when I finished the last one. It might not be any better than a drug, just a high and then a plummet back into reality. Yet, at any rate, I want to give it another try. I pick up my sketching pad and take a deep breath. I am ready to try again.


	6. Basement Living and Dog Fights

It's back to school. One mental health day is apparently good enough. No more free-rides for me. I'm not ill, in spite of the fact that I desire nothing more than to stay under the covers. And I'm not safe, even then and there, from my fears and nightmares.

My parents, I think, are getting fed up with me. My father more so than my mother. Being a mum means, apparently, to her, that she has to protect me. She even tells me to use my mobile to call if I'm not feeling well. This gets them into another one of their fights. He says there's nothing the matter with me physically, though he does mention a need for me to maybe get professional help. Much of his comment is uttered under his breath, but my mother hears it anyway. She is ticked. I realize their fight means they're going to be late for work-both of them. But I don't tell them anything about it. It's getting so much easier, now more than ever, to give up speaking.

Before, my throat hurt and was dry all the time, and my lips felt weak. As time goes by, however, I am starting to wonder why I ever bothered speaking at all. Why I feel the need to even make little sounds of communication to assure people I'm listening. It's not as if anyone actually wants to hear what I have to say. And if they don't care, why should I?

As I get onto the subway this morning, quiet as anything, I find myself wondering something.

How long would it take anyone to notice if I stopped talking altogether? Completely, I mean. A week? Three? A month? I don't know. And if they ever did figure it out, what would they say? Would they let be me? Or would everyone flip out? Perhaps there would just be a mutual belief that I was simply being stubborn. Part of me wants to give it a try. Just stop talking completely. It's strange, considering I don't say much anyway. There's always a chance it will barely make any difference at all when all is said and done. Yet somewhere in my core I am sick of all this. Some distant breath inside of me is screaming to just make everything go away. I want this alternate universe gone. I want the world to make sense again, like it used to. Things made perfect sense when Lucy was…I won't let myself think of her…I won't…I can't…not again…not after what keeps happening every time I try to forget and fail…no, not now.

I am back to praying silently for a distraction.

My prayers are finally answered during my first class of the day. It is Music, and Mr. Tumnus looks flustered. I bet he has a headache from the unavoidable echoes bouncing from the instruments off of the cement and brick walls, filling the hollowish area with speaker-system-level sound-waves. The school is making him spend the morning teaching his students in the basement while they re-paint the walls in his usual classroom.

Some of the students, mostly prissy, dumpy girls with manicures and nasal, high-pitched voices that don't sound right singing anyway, and so are more or less useless in Music, complain that they don't like being down here. It's too dark. It's creepy. They don't like the way the single extra-bright florescent light-bulb in the middle of the room sways back and forth. It's too eerie for them, they protest.

I'm not sure how I feel about being down here. I've never been in the school basement before. Most of the kids haven't, I bet. It's just that no one uses these underground rooms anymore. This one is empty, where they dump the teachers when their regular rooms are being painted or sprayed for bugs or whatever. But I can see more rooms, branching off from this one not so far off. I am strangely curious. Most of them must be used for storage, probably, and I doubt there is anything particularly interesting down here, but I'm still intrigued. Maybe because, aside from the echoes, when all these others leave, I know it will be as quiet as I've become. All silent except for my foot-falls.

Somewhat eagerly, I wait until the class is over and the others are filing out. Mr. Tumnus is busy rubbing his forehead and putting some brass flutes away in worn-out-looking blue cases. I sense my chance. I creep along the walls, leading into the other rooms.

Over-head I can hear the rush of water and a faint rumbling. I look up, not surprised at all to see the piping on the ceiling above me. I pass through three or four little passageways, then two rooms filled with old black-boards that have lost most of their black and a few dusty green mats.

A metallic door with rust-red paint peeling off of its sides stands before me. I expect it to be locked, but it isn't. So I walk in. It is not a bad little place inside. A small chamber about the size of a large walk-in closet. It's dark with no windows, but, just in like the room Mr. Tumnus was giving his lessons in, it has a single light-bulb. All I have to do is pull down on the little chain hanging from it.

It isn't a harsh glow, it's more yellow than white, softened greatly by the fine layer of dust all around it.

Clearly the place is seldom used. It's the sort of place a person could go to and be alone for hours without anyone even thinking about checking in there for them. I imagine it could be almost comfortable with a few adjustments. Then it hits me. I could stay here when I need to get away. I don't have to hide in the Art room all the time. Maybe I could even have lunch in here once in a while so that Peter is less likely to get in trouble. The walls are sort of dingy, though. Do I really want to waste my time in a tiny, airless room, choking on gathered dust, staring at those walls?

I think: Do I have anything _better_ to do?

Aside from maybe working on my drawings, not really.

The one I started on my mental health day was sort of bleak. To be honest, I hate it.

But I can hear Mr. Pevensie's nagging voice in the back of my head telling me to give it a chance, to make it my own before I get rid of it. I'm not even sure what it was supposed to be. A castle, I think, by the sea-shore. I started with the towers, and I can't get them right. They look stiff and too idealistic. Now I've got hardly anything on that sheet except a few measly lines and a lot of eraser marks.

At least, if I'm going to spend time in this basement room, I might consider hanging up my faun-turning-into-stone, witch, and dwarf picture in here. It would be better than looking at the cracks in the walls at any rate.

I notice something round like a disk gleam faintly in one corner. It is a sink-in handle of another door-the sort that slides open. Inside there's nothing but gray carpeting that looks frayed and worn. It reminds me of a hotel lobby's carpeting because it's so thin and evidently trampled. I wonder when this room was ever used enough for that. Enough that so many people would have left their footmarks. Who knows, maybe this was a classroom back in the 1940s or something. Would have had to have been a pretty small class, I think, to fit in here. I wonder what they would have used the little carpet closet for. It's like a closet inside of a closet, If you're going by size.

There is something covered by a dirty gray-and-pepper-red comforter in the farthest corner. I assume it is a full-length mirror, since it's so tall. What else could it be? And since I have no interest whatsoever in seeing a big mirror, I ignore it. But then my foot gets caught in a torn seam as I stumble over to where a broom is kept. I am not a terribly tidy person in general, I don't crave order as much as you might think, but I know I have to make the place somewhat workable. Pulling my foot free, I cause the comforter to come down on my head.

I sneeze.

Then I look up. It isn't a mirror after all. At least, it's not _only_ a mirror, I should say. It is a wardrobe with a mirror on the door. Back when it was made, they probably didn't call it a mirror; they probably just called it a looking-glass front. I wonder what a wardrobe is doing in a school. It could have been used as a supply closet once, I suppose, but it still seems rather out of place.

The mirror part of it is grimy, missing a fair share of its silver on one side, covered in little white blots of what looks a bit like bird-poo. It's probably only paint, though. I can see my distorted reflection staring back at me. There's a little cobweb clinging to one side of my head and my face looks strained and dirty.

I try the door, expecting it to open up right away. Instead, I find it is locked. A few minutes later, I have forgotten about it, turning my attention elsewhere. My foot strikes against a piece of metal. A small key. A small key just the right size for the wardrobe.

The lock turns quickly, and the door creaks open. Inside there are three black robes and one large fur coat. I can't help thinking about Lucy again. She loved the feel of fur. I never did understand why, but I knew she was very fond of it.

Somehow, thinking about her in this basement room doesn't hurt me as much as when she has come to mind in other places. Maybe because this feels more real than the fog of this alternate world I've been living in. Or maybe it feels less real, and I can almost pretend nothing has changed. I can almost separate myself in this quiet place from everything, distancing the memories as though they happened to somebody else. Yet, they still feel strangely like they are my own. It's hard to explain, even to myself, but that's how it is. That's what it's like in this room.

I recall there being a wardrobe in my own house before my Mum-who always thought it was a bit tacky-sold it in a yard sale a few years back. It wasn't like this one; it had two doors and no one ever hung anything up in it. Lucy's parents had one, too. It was a one door, but with no mirror and a funny handle shaped like a bell. They probably still have it as likely as not. There were actually at least ten different fur coats hanging up in there.

Lucy and I made out in there once with the door half-closed. We leaned against the fur coats and kept our fingers intertwined for almost the entire time. I think Mr. Valiant would have killed me if he'd ever found out about that. Thankfully, he never did.

I sit down in a corner I have cleared off for myself and put my face in my hands. I don't cry, not now, but a moan escapes. I want to shake off this feeling, this year, this tragedy, but I'm trapped. I've been convincing myself it would all go away if only I could make myself forget. I was never persuaded enough to believe my own thoughts, but I kept trying. Now I am not so sure forgetting will solve anything. It might just leave me twice as empty as before. I am at an impasse. Forget, lose everything. Remember, _know_ I've lost everything-and lose my mind in the bargain as well.

My drawing with the castle towers is still frustrating me, so I can't throw myself back into that at the moment either. I feel as if I am going to burst into a thousand pieces. The bell rings. I am surprised I can hear it down here. Surprised that the world above still exists in this place. I don't know how many classes I've missed. And I can't tell if it's lunchtime, either, since hunger doesn't strike me anymore. If I've missed any classes, I hope the White Witch's was one of them. She might know I haven't done my homework and she isn't at all likely to let that slide. I'm still afraid of her. Strangely less so after putting my feelings into that drawing; the one that made Peter laugh so hard. But somehow the initial fear is still there, hanging over me.

In the end, I decide not to go to any classes today except for Art. None of the other students will take much notice of me. If they did, it would be the first time, after all. And as Mr. Tumnus is the only teacher who knows I came in today, I assume it will be easy to skip.

I am right. I get to Art class without any problems, skipping all my other lessons.

Peter, who seems more like 'Mr. Pevensie' today than 'Susan's older brother', gives me a very hard look. He knows, I think, he must know. How? I can't guess. But the look of faint disappointment he gives me is strong enough to make me feel just the slightest bit guilty. I guess I could have just skipped the White Witch's class; there was no need for me to ditch History or English or Math other than the fact that I simply wanted to.

At first I am sure he is going to say something to me about it, but when he doesn't, I relax a little.

His eyes are very tired-looking today. They focus in on me-and on a couple of other students as well-but not for very long. His movements, limping on his crutch, seem particularly strained, and I wonder if something has happened to make his leg worse.

"Mr. Pevensie," says Lasaraleen, raising her hand. "Is it true?"

"Is what true?" He asks wearily. He looks as though he wants nothing more than for everyone to attend to their work and let him rest for a bit.

I find myself wondering if the strain of medical school might have been too much for him if he'd gone that way in life. Even if he seems out of place as an Art teacher, maybe it was what was best for him. Then again, working with loud-mouth teenagers, low pay, and a practically non-existent budget isn't a relaxing job, either.

"Is it true that yesterday you fought off a big dog with your crutch to save your sister?"

Peter's brow crinkles. "Where did you hear about that?"

"Stacie told Jenny who told Corin who told Caspian who told me two minutes before class."

I'm surprisingly interested in this story. This is the first I've heard of it. Figures the one day I'm not here in this God-forsaken, lice-invested place, something exciting happens. That must be why he's so tired, poor chap. Fighting off a dog with a hurt leg. Yikes.

"Well it wasn't a big deal," says Peter modestly. "She was on a tree branch anyway."

"The dog?" Some slow kid asks.

"No, _Susan_ was in the tree," Peter corrects him, looking bemused. I gather he doesn't like getting all of this attention. The lime-light doesn't give him much pleasure.

"Then where was the dog?"

"On the ground."

"Oh."

"Is it true it was a pit-bull and you're going to sue the owner for a million pounds?" Caspian wants to know.

"No, of course not, don't be ridiculous," Peter tells him indignantly. "It was a husky, and I don't know who the owner was."

"Bummer," comments Caspian.

"Just get to your family drawing," says Peter, closing the discussion.

I look down at my castle and I feel nothing. Art is supposed to be about feeling something, isn't it? Isn't that what every artistic nut-case hammers into the brains of the rest of us?

I think about what Peter did. A new idea comes. I start to sketch a hand holding what begins as a crutch.

Even though he doesn't say anything, when Peter looks over my shoulder, I know what he's thinking. A crutch isn't fantasy. It's just a crutch. And, also, it's sort of boring. I re-work it into a sword. The sword points as something I intend to be a husky dog at first. It gets bigger In my mind though, until it is a wolf instead.

"Hmm," says Mr. Pevensie, limping back over to his desk.

I am not sure if it is a hum of approval or not, so I just keep working. I wonder what he is thinking now, if he knows who's face I intend to use when the hand becomes a person. If not, he might be surprised. Just like he was when he saw Miss Jadis and Mr. Tumnus in the last one.

This time he doesn't let me stay after class to keep working. Either someone tattled to the headmaster and he's worried about getting the sack, or else he's just too tired to deal with an extra hang-around student right now.

I go back to my basement room and work on straightening it out until the last bell rings and I have to hurry to catch the subway before I miss it again.

At home, my parents don't ask me anything about my day. They are still steaming. Not at me, I don't think, but it effects their actions towards me. My mother gives me a half-smile, glad I am apparently feeling better and made it through the day, but only says, "Oh, you're home."

That's fine by me. They both want me to go upstairs and do my homework and then maybe take a bike ride down to go visiting friends. Aw, they think I have friends! How quaint. They probably just want to argue some more without worrying that I'll hear them curse. As if I don't hear it at school all the time anyway.

I obey the letter of the law, going upstairs to my room. My homework doesn't even get taken out of my satchel, however. I just climb into bed for twenty minutes and stare up at the ceiling. Eventually I feel restless and busy myself looking for things I can bring into my basement room in the school. Non-important things that won't be missed. I wonder if I could get away with sneaking a whole chair down there so I'll have something not broken to sit on. Realizing how unlikely I am to manage that, I settle on a few cushions I don't think my parents will notice are gone.

When I have finished that-packed a few bits and pieces away for tomorrow-I work on my drawing. I sketch my wolf and debate on colouring his eyes yellow or else red with my coloured-pencils. I decide on red, because it's a little scarier, but I outline it in yellow for a bolder effect.

I like my wolf, sort of. In a love-hate way. But he seems a little flat with the exception of his eyes which I think I've gotten right.

I remember an old book my parents brought me when I was seven. It was Grimm's fairytales. Mum got really freaked out when she realized it wasn't the little-kid version of the collection. The thing was _loaded_ with blood and gore. I thought that was cool and kept it hidden under the floorboards in our attic when she came to get rid of it and find something more age appropriate for her child to read.

Funny how long ago that was, when I was so little that I thought it was a tremendously cool secret having that book hidden. I think about the evil wolves in that book; remembering that it was fully illustrated. I think it might help me, and so I creep up to the attic, where it still is, and retrieve it. Even after all these years, it doesn't look worn. The pages are yellowed but not crumpled or dog-eared. Probably because it's been untouched for so long.

I work on my wolf until supper. I eat enough to get my parents off of my back, and then I return upstairs. I mean to work some more on my drawing, but my eyelids are heavy. I fall sleep with a gray coloured-pencil in my hand.


	7. Self Blame

I cannot wait to see the look on Peter's face when he walks into today's Art class.

It's been three days since he fought off that dog and saved his sister. In spite of his best efforts, the story has spread like wild-fire. And, as an added after-effect, Lasaraleen is charmed by his supposed 'bravery' and has decided after a few days of brooding over this, that she loves him. I know this because she was telling some other girl five lockers down from hers about it. Apparently it would have been too much trouble for her to just _walk_ over to her friend and have the discussion discreetly. No, she had to shout it at the top of her voice like she was bellowing over a bloody fog-horn.

The best part is that she has written, 'I love you' on the back of her hand in what looks like henna (I'm going to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume it's not, say, blood). She plans to flash it at him as he walks by handing out sketch pads. Supposedly she originally wanted it to say, 'I love you, darling'. But for some reason the last word didn't fit so she had to take what she could manage.

I know it's sort of mean-and immature-and that someone who is as apathetic and bitter as I am should not be amused by this, but I just can't help it.

He walks in and she flashes her hand. First it is the wrong way; upside down. Mr. Pevensie has no idea what it says. Then she finally gets it right side up, and he sees it.

I choke back a chuckle as poor Peter goes dead-white, looks like he is trying very hard not to laugh uncomfortably, and quietly 'suggests' she visit the classroom sink and wash her hands.

Tilting her head in a completely dazzled, enchanted manner, Lasaraleen murmurs, "Okay," and hums as she skips over to the sink.

I think Peter should also suggest that she visit the school psychiatrist.

Then again, this is Lasaraleen. This is, from what I've seen so far of her, pretty much normal behavior. And it isn't surprising that if she had to have a crush one of the teachers, it would end up being good old Mr. Pevensie. I mean, I can't imagine any girl (even a flake like Lasaraleen) swooning over Mr. Ketterley or Professor Kirke. Peter-young, brave, injured, and nice to his sister-never stood a chance of escaping her notice.

Caspian completely loses it and bursts out into hysterical laughter as Lasaraleen returns to her seat.

Peter ignores this and asks how his family pictures are coming along.

Embarrassed since he is still having some trouble with his assignment, he digresses.

My own picture is almost done now. I've finished everything except for the face of the man holding the sword and the face of the girl I drew in the background, sitting on a low tree branch with one foot dangling down dangerously. To be honest, I don't know if Susan's foot was that low or how close the dog actually got to her. It doesn't matter in my picture, though.

The wolf is complete. I've made him large and shaggy. He is mostly gray, but there is some brown in his coat as well. And his outline is all done in black and traced over with a dark marker. I wanted the eyes to sort of gleam more. Turns out it's not easy to add light into a drawing. All of those artists on Television and in the park-shows make it look so simple. It's not. Not even a little bit. Still, other than their lack of light, the eyes are bold. I toyed with the idea of making them slightly blood-shot for a while. In the end I decided against that.

After Art-although I know I shouldn't-I ditch whatever classes I have next and go downstairs into my basement room.

It's a little different now than when I first found it. Dust is cleared, Some cushions are laid-out, a few books I checked out from the school library are stacked in a corner. I haven't felt like reading in here yet, but I suppose there's a first time for everything. My picture of the faun being turned into stone is on the wall next to a poster I decided to hang up.

It's of an author. Apparently the school-board does not approve of his fantasy books because of their so-called spiritual undertone and the poster was being taken down from display. I guess since they banded a few of his books from the grounds they didn't want to promote him. Mr. Pevensie sounded really annoyed when they rolled up the poster and stored it in his classroom. At first I just figured it was because he didn't like the Art room being used as a closet for the school's unwanted junk. Apparently, however, he was more indignant about the fact that they banded the writer in the first place. He even looked right at me and said it was a pity because I in particular could have probably gotten a lot of inspiration from the man's stories.

He must be really great if the school board's afraid of him. I mean, it's not proof per-say, considering they're probably scared of the White Witch, too. Still, though.

His name was Jack Lewis. The photo is from, like, the fifties or something; black and white and rather grainy.

It's strange how I feel more at home in this basement than I do in my own bedroom at home. How when I sit here, I can think without breaking down and hyperventilating. Here my inner screams are amplified and muffled at the same time, consoling me. This is the one place where I don't feel scared or angry. But I don't feel completely numb here either.

Every once in a while, I fall asleep in here. Somehow it is easier to sleep here than at home. Nightmares don't haunt me as much. I still dream about her sometimes when I'm in here, but it's different. I don't see trains crashing and I don't re-live the horror of going down to that morgue to see if it really was Lucy Valiant or not. Mostly, when she appears, it's more like she's sort of just sitting beside me.

Once, before I woke up, I even tried to talk to her. My tongue, stiff from lack of motivation for so long, felt heavy even in my dream. Finally I was about to say something (to be honest, I'm not even sure _what_ exactly), but my eyes shot open. The shadows in the room hadn't changed since there aren't any windows, only that light-bulb. All the same, I still knew it was probably hours later. And she was gone.

I nibble on a ham sandwich I've brought with me in my satchel and glance over at the wardrobe. Maybe I could do something with a wardrobe in my drawings later this year. I don't know how that would fit into fantasy, exactly, but I suppose I might think of something. It doesn't really matter if I don't figure everything out by the end of the year anyway. Although I suppose Mr. Pevensie would be disappointed. He wanted me to find meaning in my word. Well, tough. He should have given me something easier.

I rummage for something in my satchel and I come across a flyer for a party crumpled at the bottom. The party was right before summer. It was in Bristol. It took place three days after I started reading that novel. Three days after Lucy gave me the little fire-flower I pressed into it. The last place I ever saw Lu before…no, I don't like thinking about that. Sure, it doesn't hurt as much here, but my chest still tightens when I think about…about it…about how I didn't know she was going to be there…and then…after that…I thought…if I'd known-about the accident that was going to happen the next day-maybe I could have…

I don't know that there was anything I could have done. But what if there was? What if I hadn't let her go back with her friends afterwards, planning to take the train home the next day on her own after spending the rest of the night at their house? What if I had tried insisting that she come with me, since I was going back that night? She would be alive right now, wouldn't she?

Does that make it my fault? Does it mean I didn't care enough? Most people might tell me no. But if they did, I'm not sure I would be so easily convinced. I mean, you would think, after what happened, I wouldn't want to let her out of my sight.

I am an idiot.

* * *

Lucy Valiant had no idea what she was doing at a wild house-party in Bristol. She was only in Bristol to begin with because one of her friends from school, Marjorie Preston, had invited her to Anne Featherstone's sleepover.

Anne Featherstone was a couple of years older than they were; and she lived in Bristol. Lucy had never been terribly fond of the girl-Anne could act terribly uppity at times-little as she knew her, but Marjorie considered her a friend, since she admired her popularity and apparent glamour.

And so, of course, when she was invited to Anne's sleepover and told she could bring a friend, Lucy was the first one she thought of. Not only was Lucy a steadfast companion who she knew would stick by her when most others wouldn't, she also wasn't at all likely to tell anyone if Marjorie embarrassed herself in front of the older girls.

At first it had seemed very like a typical sleepover. Anne's friends giggled madly and gossiped about who liked who and played truth or dare until they had mostly grown tired of it.

One of the most daring of the girls, however, had one last 'dare' to try out. "I dare us all to sneak out of the house and go hang out at a party as late as we can."

"That's silly," the girl to her left said. "We don't know where any parties are."

Lucy bit onto her thumb-nail in relief. She hadn't liked the idea of sneaking out one bit.

Tossing her head back cockily, Anne said, "Maybe none of _you_ know, but I do."

"You do?" Lucy blurted out awkwardly.

Marjorie, sitting cross-legged like a Turk in the corner, dipping into a glass bowl of lightly-salted popcorn, seemed a little nervous; but Lucy could tell she was far more eager to go to an 'older party' than she was afraid to.

"I know about a big one," bragged Anne.

"Then what are we doing _here_?" exclaimed the girl who had suggested the dare.

"Can you get us in?"

"What time will we be back?"

"Will there be boys there?"

Anne, loving being the centre of attention, raised her palm, smiled knowingly, and assured them it would be fun, she most certainly could get them in, and yes, there would be boys there.

"I don't think we should," murmured Lucy.

Marjorie stood up and walked over to her friend. In her ear she whispered, "Please, Lu, I really want to go."

Lucy blinked at her.

"I can't go without you, I need a friend my own age with me."

"We'll all be sticking together," a mousy-faced girl pointed out, not meanly.

"How are we going to get there?" Marjorie asked Anne.

"My sister can drive us," she told them.

"But won't she tell your mother?"

"Course not," snorted Anne, insulted that they even had to bring that up. As if that was what mattered! "I've got major blackmail on her; and she knows I could get her into _much_ bigger trouble than she could get me into."

Although Lucy didn't know it, Edmund was-somewhat unwillingly-going to that same party with some of his friends from the rugger team that night. They'd all gone out for Pizza together and were having a great time, but of course some moron had to mention a wild house-party that his brother's friend's cousin from Bristol knew about.

A flyer was tossed at Edmund's head.

"I bet they'd let us in if we brought a keg of beer," one of the boys suggested.

Edmund might have asked him how on earth he planned to get the said keg, but he knew better than that. For some reason the guys never had a hard time getting drinks, even in large quantities. He had learned not to question it.

And the next thing Ed knew, he was in the back of one of his friend's brother's car, his feet smushed against an enormous boom-box the dear old chaps just _had_ to bring along with them, speeding toward Bristol.

"You know red doesn't mean 'go faster', right?" Edmund felt he had to point out to the driver when, after not stopping at the traffic-lights, they'd had to make a semi-dangerous U-turn to avoid being hit by another car.

Everybody else in the back told him to shut up.

Lucy, already at the party for over a half-hour, was looking for the others she'd come with. However thoroughly she scanned the room for them, she couldn't locate her friends in the crowd. Even timid Marjorie, who had stuck by her side devotedly for the first fifteen minutes or so, had wandered off. As for Anne-well, she could be anywhere.

Finally, tried of making laps around the room, Lucy gave up and settled on leaning against a door-post, hoping maybe, whenever the girls were partied out, _they_ could find _her_.

"Well, hello there," said a tall, dark-faced boy a few years older than Edmund was.

Turning to look at him, Lucy could tell he was handsome, but didn't care a fig about that. She didn't like his face; something about him made her feel uneasy. Maybe it was his smile, too smooth, too quick, so obviously unnatural. Or else some other feature about him was a dead give-away. Probably the fact that he smelled like he had been drinking a lot that night, fairly _reeking_ of beer and spiked punch, was a hint.

Not wanting to be rude, Lucy managed a polite grin and said a quick, "Hi," turning her attention back to the crowd in general.

"Did you come alone?" he asked, either not getting that she didn't want him hanging around her, or else simply not caring what she thought.

Lucy shook her head. "I came with my friends."

"Where are they?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"How old are you?"

For a moment, she considered not answering, but, "Thirteen."

He pretended to look stunned. "No way! You seem so mature, I thought for sure you were older than that."

She looked away indifferently, not flattered in the least.

Feeling more and more nervous as he came closer and closer, his arm almost touching her back, Lucy jerkily took a few steps backwards and told him flat out, "I have a boyfriend." As if to comfort herself, she looked down at the silver laurel-ring on her finger.

"Well, what he doesn't know won't hurt him," he cooed, reaching to grab her arm.

Indignant, Lucy pulled away. "Don't touch me."

Without warning, his hand shot out and he grabbed at her arm again, latching on this time.

"Let go," she said, pulling as hard as she could as his fingernails dug in to keep a tighter grip. "You're hurting me!"

He didn't let go; he started pulling her through the doorway they'd been standing next to, into a bedroom.

Lucy let out a scream right before his other hand clamped over her mouth. That scream turned out to be her saving grace. If her fear had muted her, causing her not to cry out, the end result might have been much more unpleasant.

Thankfully, as fate would have it, Edmund was walking by that doorway at the moment, and if she had be able to stand there five seconds longer, she would have her found herself face-to-face with her boyfriend.

Edmund had just had a fight with his friends whom had he had arrived with, and was storming off hoping to find a phone so he could either call someone to come and get him, or else call for a cab to take him to the nearest train station. Then he had heard (and half-seen) something that had escaped the notice of pretty much everyone else present; a young girl was being pulled-against her will-into one of the bedrooms by a boy a bit older than himself. He didn't recognize her-only catching a fleeting glimpse-but, unable to pass by without trying to help, he ran into the room after them.

The boy was pushing the girl up against the wall in spite of her protests and attempts to get away from him.

"Hey, leave her alone!" Edmund shouted, coming over and pulling at the boy's elbow, trying to get him to loosen up his grip.

"Stay out of this!" The boy glared at him.

It was dark in the bedroom, so Lucy wasn't certain, but she thought she knew the voice of the other person present. "Edmund?"

Horrified, Edmund's eyes widened. " _Lucy_?" What was she doing there?

"I _said_ stay out of this." The dark-faced boy took a step closer to Edmund, threateningly.

He took one look at his frightened, now tear-stained girlfriend, saw her tremble, and-without even thinking about how much bigger the other boy was than him-punched him dead in the face.

A rather nasty fight ensued; and although Edmund's nose was not actually broken in the process, it did bleed quite a bit. Lucy saw the dark stream running down from under his nose to his upper lip and let out another scream. It all might have ended very badly for Edmund, being younger and less strong than the person he was shoving and kicking at, if the boy hadn't happened to stagger backwards from one of his harder pushes, bang into the wall behind him, and get the collar of his T-shirt stuck on a coat-hook.

"Let me down from here, you coward!" he screamed as Edmund started backing away, trying to get over to Lucy as quickly as possible.

"Are you all right?" asked Edmund, panting a little, putting an arm around her comfortingly.

She nodded, swallowing hard. "I think so."

"Come on, let's get out of here." Edmund started to lead her out the door.

"Hey, let me down and finish fighting me!" shouted the dark boy hanging from the coat-hook. "Take it like a man!"

"Certainly," Edmund started to let go of Lucy and walk over to him; but she grabbed onto his sleeve and shook her head.

"Let's just go," she begged. "Please, I just want to get out of here."

"If you ever come near her again, you will get much worse than an embarrassing moment like this, I swear to it." With that, Edmund took Lucy's hand and turned around to leave.

"Don't flatter her," retorted the boy coldly, angered at being rejected and humiliated; "why would I bother? She's not even _pretty_."

That got him mad; Edmund's face went very red and in all likelihood if Lucy hadn't squeezed his hand tighter, urging him to let it go, he might have reacted borderline violently to that particular insult.

They didn't see coat-hook boy again after that, nor did they care if anyone ever decided to go through the trouble of helping him down or not. They sat in a corner, away from most of the noise of the party that was still going on as if nothing had happened, talking quietly.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Edmund double-checked, pulling a checker-patterned blanket he'd found on top of one of the soda-coolers around her shoulders.

"I'm fine." Lucy looked at his nose; it had a wide line of dried blood caked under it. The bleeding had stopped, but it still looked painful.

Understanding what she was thinking, he said, "Don't worry about it, Lu."

What Edmund did nearly an hour later, he always regretted. No one can live peacefully in a world of what ifs, and though he did eventually come to a point where it didn't eat at him as readily, this was for ever to become a tender subject with him. One he didn't like to think about; even in his basement room. And of course it was unexplainably hard for him to talk about it.

He found her friends and insisted they leave and take Lucy back to Anne Featherstone's house so that she could rest and then catch a train home the next day. As for himself, he took a cab that night to the station. It was one of the darkest 'if only's he ever had to face in his life: if only he'd just let her come home with him that night.

She kissed him goodbye before she left with Marjorie, Anne, and the rest of them.

That was the last time he ever saw her alive.

* * *

I feel wetness on my cheeks. At first, I think I am sweating. But that doesn't seem right. Then I realize I've been crying. For how long-hunched up with my knees to my chest, seated on a cushion, rocking back and forth-I don't know. A few bells might have rung. The whole school-day might even be over. I could have missed the subway again. But I don't care. I don't care about any of it.


	8. Cuts and Gags

I missed the subway again. My parents were not happy.

But three weeks have passed and that issue is no longer my biggest folly. I've been ratted out; the school called my parents about the low marks I've been getting. The office even sent a fax.

I come home, thinking of nothing but locking myself in my room (again), and my parents have this slow, 'how dare you?' smile about them. Shuddering, I follow my father as his lips lower themselves into a glower and his eyes darken considerably. He is furious. Not even Mum will stand up for me now. I'm not a favourite at this particular moment. I'm just in big, big trouble.

"This! This! This!" is the first thing out of my father's mouth. He sputters and speaks through his teeth, waving a fax under my nose.

"Is there anything you want to tell us?" demands my mother. Her arms are folded across her chest. Her eyes are cold as ice.

I. Am. So. Done. For.

At first I don't know what they are talking about, but then I catch a glimpse of the print on the fax. I wince. It's all about my marks. I bet there are some mentions of how many classes I've missed, too.

I don't answer. After all, the right to remain silent is just about all I've got going for me at the moment. But my parents do not seem to see it that way. They think I'm being stubborn and sullen.

"Edmund Justaciturn," says my father tersely, "we're waiting."

No.

"How could you have failed science?" Mum asks with a confused shake of her head. "You did so well last year."

Miss Jadis failed me. I guess not showing up to her class and not doing my homework didn't make me disappear from her memory. Darn. Part of me was sort of hoping that if she never saw me again, she might start to doubt I was anything but a figment of her imagination. Figures the White Witch wouldn't forget.

"Speak up," my father tells me.

In my head, I think-secretly-that my silence isn't as freeing as it ought to be. I don't think it becomes me at all. But there's no way out. Can't they see it? I'm gone. I'm barely a shadow of who I used to be. Ever since the world ended…

"For the love of God, Edmund, say something." My mother is losing her patience for this. Like it's a game I'm playing. Some silly child's trick.

If she could see into my mind, I wonder, get a peek into all the fragments and broken thoughts, would she understand? Probably not. Even if I could tell them how I was feeling; how ever since…well, they'll never understand. And even if they could, my jaw hurts. It's like having rusty hinges; I cannot make the them open up.

"Dash it, Edmund!" My father pounds his fist down on the nearby coffee table.

"You'll break it," Mum whispers to him under her breath. I am not supposed to hear her say that; this is one of those 'the punishment is coming from both of us' things. But I hear it clear as day anyway, and I'm certain they know it, so that doesn't matter.

If they knew about my basement room, I think they'd be even more furious. Just a place to waste time, I'm sure they would tell me. They would be dead wrong, though. It's become so much more than that. It's the one thing that still feels unended. I can't explain it. I can't explain much of anything these days. All the same, I know I mustn't lead them on about it. It'll have to be my own little secret. At least until the end of the year.

As they drone on and on about how they expect a great deal more effort from me, pretending to be sympathetic by turn, I tune them out. I think about the walls in that room. Along-side that Jack Lewis poster, I've got three pictures hanging up there now. The stone faun one, the one with Peter saving Susan from a wolf (even the faces are finished by now), and the one I didn't believe I would ever finish. Never-mind, like. The one of the castle. The towers finally don't look stupid or overly perfected. There's nothing idealistic about it. Well, except maybe for the sea-gulls I put in to add to the fact that it was by the sea-shore. I'd thought for sure Mr. Pevensie was not going to be pleased with that. Oddly enough, he didn't mind. He actually said it worked very well.

I recall Caspian (who still hasn't gotten much of anywhere with his family drawings) turning around and sort of giving me a semi-dirty look when Peter commended on my castle. Lasaraleen didn't care that he didn't like her most recent piece of work-she's still in love with him.

Thinking about Art class makes me want to laugh-maybe just a little bit. A small half-suppressed smile creeps up onto my face. I have forgotten I am standing in front of my mad-as-anything parents.

"You think this is funny?" shouts my father, ripping the fax into three neat pieces in front of me and dropping them into the dustbin.

I don't reply.

Instead I watch the three messily-torn pieces of paper falling. I wait until they touch the empty silver-coloured metal-bottom before swallowing hard. Perhaps I should say _something_ now.

"Honey," my mother says in a low voice, clicking her tongue, "don't just keep yelling at him."

I grimace. Often, that's what she says right before they start yelling at each other. I wonder if that makes it my fault. It shouldn't, but sometimes I think it does.

Say something. Say something. Say something.

I can't. I'm tired. It hurts.

"Tomorrow, young man, you will ask this Miss Jadis and this Mr. Kirke-" my father begins, his tone surprisingly level.

"Professor," I murmur.

"What?"

Was that me? Was that _my_ voice? _That's_ what I just spoke up about?

"It's _Professor_ Kirke, actually," I say, my voice so low I am sure they can only just barely hear it.

Their brows crinkle.

"I know, it's confusing." My shoulders shrug upwards, then slump back down.

Poor Professor Kirke. I guess I can't blame him for not passing me, considering I only show up to his class when I feel in the mood for it. As opposed to every day like I am supposed to. Miss Jadis, well, she's a witch. I don't feel sorry for _her_. But him? Why not?

At least my marks aren't quite as low in his class as they could be. When I actually do make an appearance and park my tush at my desk for forty-five minutes, I usually can follow what's going on. Only I don't care enough about it to raise my hand. (What if he called on me? Then I'd have to speak up. And why would I want that?)

"Professor, then." My father is still going strong, undeterred. "You will ask him-and Miss Jadis-if you can do some extra-credit work to raise your marks."

I nod. It's so much easier than arguing. I think the fire in their eyes is slowly curling up into smoke. For once, the result may be pretend-peaceful if nothing else. Calmness.

A heavy sigh, followed by a quick pat on the check from Mum. "Good boy."

Then I am upstairs again. Extra-credit work, I think. Ugh. This isn't going to be much fun.

I decide to at least give myself one more night off. I don't do any homework. Rather, I sneak down into the kitchen for a snack. Yes, strange though it sounds, I almost feel like I could eat something. Not taste it properly, exactly, but perhaps I might keep something down. I might even feel better afterwards. Since the world ended, this has become such a foreign concept to me.

But my stomach growls, and I obey it this time.

I open the fridge.

A block of cheese, a bowl of week-old pasta, a dish made with eggs (doesn't actually look safe to eat), four loaves of bread, a plastic-bag of grapes, and an apple in the way back that is so old mold is starting to grow on it. The mold is pale greenish-gray. If you look at it a certain way under the fridge's light, it almost looks like a dull shade of silver.

I take out the grapes. The bag its in is from some health-food store called 'the Land of Youth'.

How cheesy, I think, rolling my eyes.

Hmm, cheesy? Maybe I'll have some cheese, too.

Attempting to cut a few slices of cheese, I accidentally slice open my left index finger. A neat, clean line all the way down. It bleeds all over the counter. The blood is so red, so heavy, so dark. I wait for it to clot. When it doesn't seem to be doing so, I wrap it in a dishtowel and go looking for my parents.

Me: "Um,"

They look very hard at me. "What?"

I peel back the towel and show them.

Father curses.

Mother goes for her purse and mobile.

They drive me to the hospital. I need stitches.

After my finger is all closed up with little black Xs and placed in a splint, my parents are busy talking to the doctor and the nurse about something. I'm not sure what. I am not paying attention.

I stand up and peek into an empty room. The white bed there is all made up. It looks so clean, so innocent. I almost wish I was hurt badly enough to spend the night. It might be easier to sleep here than at home. Probably it wouldn't be as easy as my basement room, though.

My parents are still busy talking. They haven't noticed I've wandered off. I think of actually climbing into one of the beds. Maybe no one would figure out I didn't actually belong. Just maybe, if I was to be really, really quiet, I might escape notice. The nurses might let me rest for a little while, not noticing the extra company present.

No, I think, the hospital beds are for physically sick people. Not people facing the world alone after everything stopped.

After a quick trip to the vending machine, where I use a pound I find in my pocket to buy a candy-bar that tastes faintly like dirt sticking to the roof of my mouth, I wander back over to my parents. They are ready to go now.

We don't talk on the way back.

Home is quiet. And I go to sleep.

The next day, my first class is Art, so I don't have to worry about strolling up to the White Witch and asking for extra credit work right off the bat. I'm not anxious about Professor Kirke. I don't expect him to give me that hard of a time about it. At worst, I might get a lecture about attendance. No biggie. The White Witch, on the other hand, is likely to do something that will publicly embarrass me. And I'll have to put up with it, or bye-bye any chance of raising those marks and getting my parents off my back.

I hate my life.

Well, not the Art part of it. Or when I'm in my basement room. The rest of it is pretty rummy, though.

Anyway, Mr. Pevensie limps into the classroom and announces that we are not going to have sketching pads today. We are moving onto something different.

"When are we going to draw naked people?" asks some moron. Worst part: I think he is dead serious.

Peter leans on his crutch, checks his ready laughter, and says, "I don't think the school board would allow that. Any other questions before I explain what we're doing?"

"Forget the school board!" someone jeers.

"Well," Peter jokes, "even if we did forget that, we wouldn't have a model, and I doubt anyone wants to see me without clothes on."

" _I_ do," Lasaraleen puts in, resting her chin in the open palms of her hands.

I wish Peter was my age and not the teacher. That way I could make fun of him for going red when she said that. I do feel sorry for him, however, don't think I don't have sympathy.

"Moving on," Peter is back in firm-voice, 'Mr. Pevensie' mode.

"Heck," cries some kid I haven't noticed before, "I'll do it!"

"Do what?" Mr. Pevensie says the wrong thing. He should nip this in the bud before it's too late.

The boy stands up on the table and pulls his uniform slacks (and pants) down. "Everybody, start drawing! You're welcome!"

It's too late.

Caspian is laughing so hard I think he is going to pass out.

Some of the other students are clapping.

Lasaraleen sighs, "I love this class."

"Enough!" Peter sounds like he might be holding back a laugh, but his tone is still unwaveringly firm.

He wobbles over to the table the half-naked student is standing on. "Show's over, pull up your pants."

The boy does so.

"And get down," he adds, rolling his eyes. "This isn't the closing scene of the Dead Poets Society, you don't have to stand on your desk."

The boy takes his seat.

"Now no more about naked people unless you all want to get sent to the headmaster's office," says Mr. Pevensie, back in control.

He tells us that we are going to be starting on making models of things instead of sketching them. We can go back to sketching later in the term if we like, but for right now, that is what we are going to be working on.

Noticing my finger, "Mr. Justaciturn, what happened?"

I shrug.

"Not your drawing hand?"

I shake my head no. He is making this easy for me. I wonder if that is on purpose or not.

"Good, then I'll give you a choice."

He says that if I feel up to it, I can work on a model of something with clay or whatever, but if not, I am free to do some more drawings in light of my injury.

I listen as he talks about how inspiration can come from just about anything. He says it's not as different from drawing as one might suppose. With great effort (because of his hurt leg) he takes off one of his shoes and places it on his desk. It is black, lace-up, and made of leather.

A few foreheads crinkle. They don't get it. It's just a shoe, isn't it?

"Does this inspire you?" Peter says it in a way that strongly suggests the question is strictly rhetorical.

Still, a few hands come up anyway, thinking he wants answers.

He ignores them and goes on with his speech. We are all supposed to look deep into ourselves. Deep into any object from our past, present, or (if we're daring) future.

I'm not sure why, but I think about the laurel-ring I gave Lucy. I remember it on her finger when…after…at the morgue. I shake the last bit away. I force myself to see only the ring. Not her finger, not her, just the ring.

I could make something like that, I think.

A model of a laurel-ring? Too small. Not really fantasy, either. What about a crown? A garland-crown in laurel shapes. Silver-coloured.

It takes a little bit of rummaging through odds and ends Peter is letting us pick from, but finally I find some flexible shinny-gray wire, some plastic leaf-shapes, and a roll of tin-foil.

I set to work.

The bell rings for the end of class; and all I have accomplished is bending the wire into a circlet and wrapping some tinfoil around one side of it. Not much. Still, this is only the start. If it fails, I'll just draw something instead. Mr. Pevensie's (perhaps unwittingly) given me a get out of jail free card with this one. Or else, my hurt finger has.

When I come across Professor Kirke in the hallway, I stammer out what I hope means I want to raise my marks. My words don't come easily. Thankfully he's in no great hurry. He waits until I am done. Then a nod. Then, "Yes, I think I can manage something for you."

Good, I think, all done. Like ripping off a band-aid. One good yank and it's over.

Now for the Witch.

How to ask her for extra credit work when I can't even imagine myself forming the words? Her stare will freeze me right up. And I know I won't ask what I promised my parents I would.

As I am gathering up my nerve, I see something that freezes me up far more quickly than the dread of asking the White Witch for a favor of sorts does.

A new boy is here, in school. And I know him. His face, even though he's not hanging from a hook, is familiar to me. I hate him. That ass! The dark-faced boy from the party in Bristol last year. God, I hate him. What is he doing here?

From listening to other people's conversations instead of going to talk to Miss Jadis like I am supposed to be doing, I gather some information about him. His name is Rabadash, he's a transfer student, and he is Lasaraleen's second cousin a couple of times removed.

Why here? Why here of all places? As if things aren't bad enough already? As if my life isn't already over? Does he have to come here? It's like sending a scavenger to sift through the ashes of my lost world and make sure not even a grain of sand's worth of it remains.

Maybe I am being unreasonable. The school doesn't know what he tried to do. And he's older; this must be his last year before he tries for a university in all likelihood. One year. I only have to make it through the rest of the year with this monster, and then he's gone. We might not even see each other much. He might not remember me. Or else, if he does, he might not recognize me as the person who punched in him the face and left him hanging on a coat-hook. But his simply being here sends shivers crawling up and down my spine.

Still forgetting what I am supposed to be doing, I go down to my basement room and pull out a sketch pad.

I may be working on that model of the laurel-crown in Art, but I can still draw during my free time. Even if, technically, it's stolen time.

My new drawing is of myself. Me tied to a tree with a gag over my mouth and a knife pressed to my throat. The imagery is clear as crystal. My lips are paralyzed, I can't speak up.

When I get home, I go up to my bedroom and find a long piece of dark brown-nearly black-cloth, and stand in front of the mirror. I open my lips and force the gag in, tying it around to the other side. To see what it would really look like, I suppose.

I stare. I squint. Like I've never seen myself before. It does look different, to be honest. I can't put my finger on it.

But, for once, I think, I look almost exactly how I feel most of the time now-a-days.

My bedroom door opens. My father is standing there.

Of course he didn't think of knocking first.

I stare at him. I know I am still wearing the gag, and I wonder how on earth I am going to explain it.

"I don't have time for this," he moans shortly, before I can think of what to say. "I'm not going to bother asking what you're doing."

Instinctively, my fingers stray to the front of the gag. I don't pull it out right away though. I just remain silent.

"Did you ask your teachers about the extra credit work?"

I nod. It's not a complete lie. After all, I did ask _one_ of them.

"And?"

I shrug.

"Well?"

I motion over at my desk. Some work is spread out there; but I haven't started it.

"Shouldn't you be working instead of fooling around?"

I lower my eyes and nod.

"Good, get to it then," he says. "Your mother and I are going out. Do your homework and try not to do anything stupid, okay?"

I blink.

"We'll be back by nine."

And he's gone.

I look back in the mirror one last time before I take off the gag. I don't like what I see. It's the truth, the pure, untarnished, non-withheld truth. But I don't like it. Not one bit.


	9. Sneaking Screams

I am sitting in Art working on my laurel-crown. I am completely stumped. Staring at the round wire with tin-foil hanging off of it messily, not all pressed down yet, I bite my lower lip. I'm not getting anywhere. And it's not just because of my splinted finger, either. I know that because I tried to draw before but nothing has come to me since that gag picture.

It is as if, by admitting the truth to myself, I've locked up any way out I had. I wonder if this is how writers feel when they run out of ideas. When their characters won't listen to them. I mean, I wouldn't know, I'm not a writer. But I might think, if I were, that it would feel something like this. Then, I'm not much of an artist either. So I can't complain.

I feel sullen, angry, tense. I can't concentrate on anything.

After a few minutes, I sense Mr. Pevensie's eyes on me and I pretend to be thinking about my laurel model.

"Mr. Justaciturn," says Peter, "come see me after class."

I roll my eyes as though this bothers me. As though I have somewhere important I want or need to be next. Actually, the White Witch's class is next; I don't care a fig about missing it. It'll actually make my life a whole lot easier if Peter gives me a late pass.

When class has ended and everyone else is leaving, I walk over to his desk.

"Come with me." He grunts and eases himself up from his seat, griping the handle of his crutch.

I do not know where he is going, but I follow him anyway.

We walk down two hallways. His leg slows him down a great deal, so I have to drag my feet from time to time to avoid getting ahead of him. Finally we come to the lift.

In general, the school rule is: no student who is not in special needs is allowed to use the lift instead of the stairs. It's mostly for teachers. Especially ones who have trouble walking-like Peter. But, whenever a student is helping a teacher carry something, or else has some other reason for permission, the rule is withdrawn.

This is only my second time on the lift. The first one was last year right before the start of summer. The headmaster zeroed in on me and made me trail after him to the parking-lot, carrying his brief-case for him.

My friends made fun of me for that, actually. I remember thinking, however, that they'd gotten stuck in the crowded stuffy stairwell on one of the hottest days of the year. I, on the other hand, was in a cool lift with an air conditioner. You tell me who had it worse.

Glancing at me, Peter pushes a button taking us to one of the top floors.

I don't say anything.

A few floors light up. Then there's a _ding!_ and we get off.

A few more hallways, a few classrooms, are passed by. Suddenly we are standing in front of the doors to the school auditorium.

I lower my brow at him suspiciously.

Probably he knows what I am thinking, because he chuckles and says, "Don't worry, I'm not going to make you audition for anything."

For a moment, I pause and lock in my tight stare, wondering if I shouldn't believe him.

"Look," he laughs lightly, "if I'm lying, I'll recite all of Puck's lines from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ in front of the entire class next lesson."

I imagine him standing in front of the class going, "I am that merry wanderer of the night…" and have to bite back a smirk.

All right then, I decide, I'll trust him.

"After you," Peter says, holding the door open with his free hand.

I walk in and wait until I hear him limping behind me. The door slams shut when he lets it go.

Flick, flick, flick. All of the lights are on.

"Go stand on the stage," he orders.

Grimacing, I hesitate.

"When are you going to learn to do as you're told?" He motions at the stage again.

Fine. Whatever. It's not like there's anyone else in here other than the two of us. I guess this is supposed to be some sort of lesson. I can't see the point of it, but at least it is better than being in the White Witch's classroom.

Standing on the stage, blinded by the bright yellow lights, Peter is just a big blur sitting in one of the seats below.

"The interesting thing about this room, Edmund, is that it's completely sound-proof," Peter announces up at me. "No one outside of this room can hear anything we say. Any sounds you or I make now are strictly off the record."

What is he getting at? Is he batty or something? Maybe he's finally cracked. Lost it. Gone stark raving mad. What else could it be?

"I think one of the reasons you feel stuck is because you've got a lot pent up inside."

Oh great, I think, he's going to try to make me talk.

Yeah, that's going to make everything all better. One quick heart-to-heart with my Art teacher is going to make all the difference in the world and we call all live happily ever after and go to Hollywood and make a lot of money off of this nonsense. So not. Not unless real-life has magically been transformed into a lame after-school special, that is.

"I think you have a lot to say," he goes on, "and if you ever wanted to talk about it, I'd listen." He pauses for a moment, letting that sink in while I roll my eyes over and over again. "But that's not why I brought you here."

To my deepening surprise, he says that he doesn't expect me to talk about anything before I feel ready. He doesn't expect me to say anything. What he wants, why I'm here, is to let it out in another way. What I'm supposed to do is just scream.

I stand half-gapping at him. He's taken me into a sound-proof room just so that I can scream? No words? No point? Just screaming?

He says I can't keep it bottled up.

This is stupid. I won't do it. I refuse. I am not going to stand on some stage in front of Mr. Pevensie and scream my head off. What is that going to achieve or prove? I shake my head.

"Sorry, Edmund, you're not leaving this room until you scream."

"You're seriously just going to sit there and stare at me until I scream?" I mutter downwards, arching a brow.

"Well, there's nothing good on television tonight anyway."

"This is stupid," I mumble.

I hear whistling. He's not letting this go.

In an attempt to get it over with, I let out a short yelp.

"You call that a scream?"

I open my mouth and shout a little louder.

"Oh, come _on_!"

"I want to leave," I grunt.

"No."

This is so unfair. I am furious that he is still keeping me here after I did what he told me to. I screamed. A deal's a deal.

"I know you've been through a lot, just let some of it out. You don't have to worry about words or talking about your feelings, or any of that rot. No one is going to hear you. Nobody is going to question you about it or call you crazy. All you have to do is let out one big yell-then you're free to go."

"I don't want to," I mutter.

"I think you do," he says.

You're wrong. Do they pay you extra for this? Go back to medical school if you're so keen on helping people.

"When was the last time _you_ screamed?" I am surprised at my own voice, low though it still is, challenging him.

In all honesty, though, I know Peter is right. I am angry. I don't want to talk-not now, not ever. But I do want to scream. My Adam's apple is bobbing up and down in my throat like a stone. I know screaming will not make the hard-as-stone-ice that encases my jaw go away. So why am I so desperate? I'm nearly as desperate right now as I am bitter.

Mr. Pevensie's answer shocks me. "I screamed when my leg got smashed in under the weight of a train."

Oh, God, not a train. Anything except that. I am not able to deal with that. Lucy, I think. There couldn't have been another railway accident so soon before or after. Peter had to have been injured in the same one that ended the world and took her away.

"No…"

Below, although I cannot see it clearly, I sense he nods his head. "Yes, Edmund, the same one."

I feel tears springing up into my eyes.

"I saw her in the window for a moment, as the train pulled in, but of course you didn't know that."

I am biting my lower lip so hard I expect it to split into two neat halves and bleed. He does not need to say who he means. I know. I know perfectly well he's talking about Lucy Valiant.

Why is he doing this to me? I can't stand this. The lights glaring up at me. This sudden realization that Peter was in the same train crash that killed my girlfriend. That a part of the accident has remained here all along. The whole world isn't ended after all. A few fragments remain to haunt me.

Before I know what I am doing, before I can let my brain talk me out of it, I let out a scream. It echoes in the room. From stage to seats it rings out. It's so loud I'm almost surprised that the walls don't come crumbling down and anything made of glass doesn't shatter.

Gasping, I sink down to my knees. I'm crying. There are tears streaming down my face like steady rainfall. My shoulders shake. I do not try to make myself stand up. My screams are gone. They are sobs now.

Peter is so quiet that I think he has left. But when the stage lights go off, and I have blinked and cleared my vision, I see him there. He hasn't moved, hasn't flinched, but his eyes are blood-shot. I see his head lower itself into a deep nod.

"Thank you," I mutter as I leap down from the stage onto the floor, not even bothering with the stairs.

"For what?"

"For not asking if I felt better." Or else saying something stupid that was supposed to help me feel that way.

"You're welcome."

"Can I go now?"

"Yes, you can go."

I pause in the doorway. "You won't tell anyone…" I don't want this story about me breaking down crying getting out.

"No," he assures me.

"Well, goodbye then."

The funny thing is, while I don't feel _better_ , per-say, I do feel a little more…I don't know how to explain it…free? I am still overwhelmed with the new knowledge that Mr. Pevensie got his injury in the same accident that changed my whole world for ever, but as the shock slowly starts to wear off I feel different somehow. Not like I could talk about what I've been going through (losing her, losing everything); but I could almost talk about something different. I might even talk to my parents if they ask me about my day.

My jaw still feels tense. I don't think I'll want to say _much_. But maybe…something…or if…I don't know.

When I get home late in the afternoon, any progress I made is reversed. My blood runs cold and I clam up all over again.

Mum is sitting in a chair by the window, her face in her hands. Usually she doesn't like me to see her cry. Growing up, whenever she was crying she always tried to hide it when she heard me coming. Not this time.

No, this time she hears my footsteps clear as day and doesn't react. I know something terrible must have happened. I try to guess. Nothing comes to mind.

"How could he do this to me?" she whimpers, swallowing hard.

I wonder if she even knows who she's talking to since I haven't said anything and she hasn't so much as glanced up at me once.

Part of me wants to know what (and who) she's talking about. Part of me wants her to stop crying for half a minute and explain. But I won't ask. My lips are tightly pressed together and my throat feels like I have strep.

It takes much longer, since I have to piece it all together, but I finally understand what has happened.

My father has left us.

Yet another bit of proof that the world ended, I think.

In the old world (the one that made sense) they always fought. And nothing ever happened afterwards. They just went on living the same way they've lived for as long as I can remember. As far as the stories about them when they were dating (at least the ones I've heard) go back.

"You're probably going to leave me, too, aren't you?" Mum's eyes flicker up at me. "I've failed as a wife and mother."

Apparently she does know who she's talking to after all.

I want to tell her that it's going to be all right. Except, I don't know that it is. For a moment I even think about maybe patting her arm or else asking if I can get her anything.

But I cannot will myself to do anything other than shake my head no when she says that about me leaving. I won't desert her. At least, I hope not. The old me never would have. I don't even know who I am anymore. If I am capable of doing things-good or bad.

Because I can't think of anything else to do, I wander into the kitchen feeling dazed. I take the tea-pot out of the cupboard and fill it with water. Then I set it on the stove, waiting for it to boil.

A few minutes later I hear it whistling away and burn my hand by grabbing the handle without a pot-holder. I curse under my breath, run some cold water over my hand, then turn my attention back to making tea.

Once it is all set, I bring the mug out to my mother and place it on the lamp-stand near her chair.

Quickly, before turning away and going upstairs, I kiss her cheek. I know she is about to start crying again. And she probably wants to be alone.

I try to do some of my extra-credit history homework, but I can't focus. I'm thinking about Mum and wondering why my father suddenly decided to leave after all these years. I wonder if there's someone else. I don't want to believe that, but he's never left us before. And, like I said, they fight all the time.

Finally I decide to take a bath. I walk out of my room, down the hall into the upstairs bathroom. I try not to think about anything while the tub fills up. But, of course, I can't will my racing mind to slow down. What is surprising is that I'm not thinking about my parents-or even Lucy-at the moment. I am thinking about Peter. Or, down to a more exact science, Peter's injury.

It must have been pretty horrible for him. Not so much the pain of the injury, as, I think, knowing you saw someone you knew on the train, and then…I mean, he must have found out pretty quickly that she'd died. Given, _he_ wasn't the one who had to identify her body. Still, it must be dreadful to see a person you know, a person you consider a friend even though you don't see them very often, on a train, to get hurt, to live, and then come to find out they didn't.

I wonder how he felt knowing that the dead girl's boyfriend was in his class. Was there ever a moment he wished, like I do every day, that he could just crawl under a rock and avoid everything? How badly does his leg actually hurt? Worse than he lets on, I bet. He doesn't talk about it. That's why I didn't know. Was he waiting, I wonder, for me to bring it up first?

The tub is full and I turn the water off.

After I have undressed and climbed in, I sit there staring blankly at the wall on the opposite side of the room until the water goes from hot to warm to lukewarm. Then it is cold. Freezing, even. But I don't move. I just stay where I am.

Because I have grown so used to it, it is strange to think that however long I sit here in the bathtub, pretending time isn't moving, I will not hear my parents arguing downstairs. You wouldn't think so, it doesn't make sense, but I sort of miss it.

Instead, I can only hear my Mother's sobs whenever they get loud enough. Also, I hear when she gets up and kicks at a wall. It doesn't matter that there's a whole floor between us, I can still hear everything. Right down to her whimper when she hurts her toes and the wailing-groan that comes as she lowers herself back into her chair. I see nothing, yet I know exactly what is going on.

I can't take this. Any of it. Lucy's gone. My parents are split. I am trapped. It's like wanting to go home but knowing home isn't there anymore. It's gnawing and burning at me from the inside out.

Without thinking about what I'm doing, I pull my head under the water. My eyes are open, so I can see the little ripples above me. I can see the little bubbles coming up, slowly lessening.

To be honest, I'm not the best at holding my breath for long periods of time. Susan Pevensie, now, from what I remember of her as a kid, she was disgustingly impressive at it. She used to be able to stay under the pool water (or the ocean waves) for whole minutes before coming up for air. I, on the other hand, can already feel my lungs calling out for air.

What if I don't answer them? What if I just stay under here until…until…until what exactly?

I've never realized this before, because I suppose I've never really given it much thought, but I think I might actually be a little afraid of death. All those stories you hear about desperate teens ending it all and everybody going on about how 'quiet' and they were-I don't think I have that in me. I can't make myself finish the job.

Scooting up and gasping, my head comes above the water. At last I shiver. Has it been this cold the whole time? I glance in the mirror as I reach for my towel. My lips are dark blue, nearly purple. My God, what's the matter with me?

I dress myself-but not in nightclothes. I put on a shirt and jeans and a hooded-sweater. I've decided I can't be home tonight. I'll just find somewhere else to be until morning.

Too bad the school doors are always locked at night. It might be sort of nice to just go into the basement room for a few hours and maybe try to get some real sleep.

For a moment, as I creep down the stairs, I wonder if Mum will hear me and think I am running away. That I am leaving her just like father did. And I feel a pang of guilt. This is not the first time I've snuck out of the house, but it is the first time I have felt even remotely bad about it.

I walk down several streets. Along the way I see a few stray dogs and a man with a bloodied lip getting thrown out of a pub. He reeks of whiskey and beer. Good distance though I am away, I can still smell that sharp as anything. He says he had a hat when he came in. I'm not sure I believe him. They throw a hat out to him anyway. I bet they just gave the bum a free hat and feel sorry for the chap that will walk home bare-headed tonight.

There are two roads down the familiar lane I am following. One leads into a downtown area with gas stations, more pubs, and some closed-for-the-night shops. The other leads to Lucy Valiant's house. Or rather, her parents' house, since I know she is not there anymore.

* * *

Even though it was very late at night, the light in Lucy's room was still on as Edmund Justaciturn stood below her window-which was two floors up from the ground-tossing pebbles at it.

The first one was poorly aimed and had hardly hit the window at all before falling into the bushes around the property. The second was a little better, but it bounced off the side of the frame too quickly to make enough noise to get her attention. The third was either the best or the worst shot of the lot depending on how you looked at it.

While it certainly succeeded in getting Lucy's attention, it also came quite close to leaving a possibly permanent mark on the window glass.

Perhaps I should have been more careful, thought Edmund, wincing.

But then, as the window opened and Lucy leaned out, he forgot all about his window-worries (and his fear of what Mr. Valiant would do to him if he found out) and smiled up at her.

"Edmund?"

"Hi, Lu!" he whisper-shouted, waving at her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, trying-and failing-to to keep her laughter in check.

"I snuck out for a late-night walk," he explained; "care to join me?"

Lucy felt her cheeks flush; he was crazy. Certainly he had lost it, coming out in the middle of the night. Then, she thought: well, why not? It isn't as if I'm going to come to any harm so long as I'm with him. She knew Edmund would protect her; and as she was too thrilled now to go to sleep, there didn't seem to be much of an alternative.

Only, how was she to get out? Surely someone would hear her if she went downstairs and used the front door. And the family's pet dog always slept near the back door and barked like mad if he heard any noise near it at any hour after sunset.

"Climb down the drain-pipe," Edmund whisper-shouted, noticing her confusion.

She glanced downwards nervously.

"Trust me," he said. "If you fall, I'll catch you."

Lucy did trust him, so she pulled herself out of the window and gripped the drain-pipe, working her way down. She was making good time, but towards the lower middle, she slipped.

Instantly Edmund rushed forward, reached up, and gripped her waist to keep her from falling. "It's all right, I've got you."

After creeping away quietly from Mr. and Mrs. Valiant's property, they spent hours walking along different streets. For part of the time, they talked and laughed about different things; but there were moments when they said nothing at all and simply held hands.

Finally, when it was only twenty minutes tops till sunrise, they headed back.

All that day, Lucy looked sort of tired; although clearly very happy as well. She sat in the kitchen beaming at nothing, her eyes half-closed and her expression dreamy.

"What's with her?" asked her father in a low, confused whisper to his wife.

Her mother didn't know either. "Maybe it's one of those teenage things."

* * *

Now I walk alone. I don't mean to find myself at the Valiant house. Indeed, I mean to go the other way completely. But memories over-take me and guide me under her window again.

There is no light on, of course.

I've been told her parents left her room exactly the way it was when she last used it. Not even the dog goes in there.

Although I am glad that they didn't change it into a sewing room or some other similar rot, I don't like the thought of it being empty day after day. Knowing she's not going to walk through that door and switch on the light. Not ever again.

A lump is in my throat and I wipe stray tears from my eyes as I turn back. I have to go home.

When I arrive at my house, I climb up the stairs to my room and rest on the bed without bothering to pull down the covers. I sleep until it is almost noon. Mum doesn't come in this morning to make sure I'm up and ready for school. She's too distraught.

I take my bike and drive to the school. Call it a half-day.

I decide to write a fake excuse note in my basement room and then bring it up to whatever teacher I have next. However, when I am sitting in there, I don't feel like leaving, so I forget about the note and wait for bells.


	10. The School Coincidance

Never say things can't get any worse. Because everybody knows they can. And when they get bad, they get _really_ bad.

Living proof of this concept exists in the fact that, when I am finally back in school, attending most of my classes, I find out that Susan Pevensie is dating Rabadash.

I. Hate. My. Life.

In Mr. Tumnus's Music class, I hear some girls gushing about how 'lucky' Susan is, how 'hot' Rabadash is, and how they make such a 'cute couple'.

Rabadash is an ass. And a pig. And a potential rapist. Oh yeah, he's a winner all right.

Of course, they don't know any of that. They're probably too thick in the head to believe it even if someone told them. Even if I could say something. But I can't. My tongue is like lead.

As if by magic, I'm back in the basement room. I don't remember walking down here. I must have, but I don't remember. I see my reflection in the wardrobe door. I'm very pale. My fists are clenched and my knuckles are ashen-coloured.

Feeling sick, I lean the side of my head against the coolness of the nearest wall.

Clearly, I have to do something. I have to say something to Susan. Only, she'd never believe me. She's a nice girl and all that, but why would she listen to some traumatized boy who barely even knows how to speak anymore? She's sane. She's sensible. She's not going to listen to me.

Sensible, I think to myself. As if!

If she really were half so sensible as she has always seemed, then she would date the devil himself before she'd consider Rabadash. She's such an idiot.

I can't worry about Susan, I have my own problems. As soon as the thought enters my mind, I am aware of how selfish and horrible that sounds. And I hate myself for it.

Yes, I do have a lot of problems. My girlfriend's dead. My parents have broken up. My Art teacher was injured in the same accident my girlfriend was killed in. Oh, and I have trouble talking. I can't communicate. Yes, a psychiatrist would have a field-day with me.

But does that really excuse me from doing the right thing? Susan doesn't know about what Rabadash tried to do to Lucy at that party in Bristol. Even if she heard a rumour and confronted him about it, he'd just deny it anyway. And where would such a rumour come from? It's not like anyone really knows other than me.

Inspiration strikes. It's not a great idea, but I have to try _something_. I have to start somewhere. I know how he really is. I can start the rumour.

The thing is, however, I'm not sure who I should whisper it to. Thunder-fist adores Susan. After all, he did lose a tooth for her. But I haven't really spoken to him much since that first day.

So the obvious choice is Peter. Although, truth is, I'm not sure I can tell him.

I can't just walk up to my Art teacher and say, "Hey, I just thought you might want to know that the boy your sister is dating once attacked my girlfriend at a party in Bristol. Plus also, you probably shouldn't tell him you heard it from me because I kind of sort of left him hanging on a hook and the last thing I want is for him to remember me and try to flatten me like road-kill. So let's keep this little chat between us, okay?"

I am so _not_ saying that.

Stressed and dizzy, I fall asleep.

I see Lucy sitting next to me in this room. I know it isn't real. All the same, she is not unwelcome company. I like seeing her here. Hoping that maybe I'll never wake up and she won't fade away. Even though she always does.

This time, I manage to move my tongue and mutter (mostly to myself), "Why should I bother about Susan? A lot _I_ could do!"

"Edmund," she says, her voice almost as low as mine, "she's your friend."

"I don't have any friends," I say stubbornly.

"You have to help her."

I know I do. Much as I might deny it, I know.

"She's pathetic."

Lucy doesn't say anything; she doesn't have to. Her just looking at me is enough. Those blue eyes still with seriousness.

They were hardly ever like that, you know. She only gave me that look when she was angry or frightened or deeply saddened. It's an expression that can break me down within seconds. Of course I would remember it now. It figures my conscience would take on the form of Lucy Valiant. It's only to be expected. I cannot ignore it.

My eyes shoot open. Lucy is gone. The dream is ended, this is the shadow-world again.

Thinking quickly, my heart pounding, I tear a piece of lined paper out of one of my notebooks I haven't actually bothered to take notes in. Then I scribble a quick message.

_To Peter Pevensie:_

_That Rabadash chap your sister is dating is not a good man. I happen to know he tried to force a thirteen year old girl into a bedroom during a party in Bristol. Tell Susan to be very, very careful._

_-A concerned person._

_PS: if you can, please tell Susan's friends to stop drooling over him. It's sickening._

I know the note is incredibly lame, but it's the best I can come up with. Hopefully it will do the job. I will leave it on Peter's desk. I am glad he's not my English teacher. If he were, he might recognize my handwriting. I don't want him to know it's from me.

Just when I think I have succeeded in keeping the note anonymous, Peter makes me stay after class again and asks me about it.

I try to widen my eyes as if to say, "Who? Me? What?" But of course it doesn't fool him even for a second.

"Did you write this, Edmund?" He is wearing a pair of reading-glasses. I didn't know he wore glasses for anything, I am surprised. I've never seen them before, they must be new.

"No." It's easier to lie. He can't prove I wrote it. Can he?

He arches a blonde brow at me. "Mr. Justaciturn, what's the matter?"

"There's no matter," I say quickly, unable to meet his eyes. "Why would you think there was?"

"You're talking," he replies simply. "Something must be wrong."

Even though he doesn't mean to be unkind, he can tell how snappish that sounds and he amends with a comment that he's not trying to get on my back. He just wants to know why I wrote that note. Whether or not it's the truth or else a prank.

"Do you really think I would waste my time with a prank?" I grumble, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the next class isn't coming in yet.

"It was Lucy Valiant, wasn't it?" He gestures down at the note. "The girl you mentioned."

I shake my head.

"Ed…"

I sigh and nod. How does he do that? Guilt me right into telling the truth, I mean.

"Thank you for letting me know." Peter reaches up with a hand that is shaking just the slightest bit and removes his reading-glasses, holding them by the rims.

He looks very tired as he rubs his eyes and shakes his head.

"Mr. Pevensie," I start to mutter, though I barely know what I am trying to say.

"Yes?"

I shake my head. Nothing. I don't have anything to say after all.

"Don't worry about Rabadash," he tells me, forcing a grin. "You let me handle him."

I wonder if a teacher can get the sack for kicking a student in the privates-because that is exactly how I imagine Peter would react if Rabadash ever really hurt his sister. Then again, he's not all impulsiveness. Maybe now that he knows he has an idea. A real one that (unfortunately) doesn't involve using Rabadash as a crash-test dummy.

Too bad, I think, that would have been quite a show.

"Mr. Justaciturn," he says right as I am getting up to leave.

I clear my throat to indicate I am listening.

"Are you going to the dance next Friday?"

We have a school dance next Friday? It takes a minute to click before I vaguely remember seeing a flyer for it getting tossed around in Professor Kirke's class one of the few times I actually showed up.

"Mr. Tumnus and I got stuck as the chaperones this year," explains Peter, "so we'll be going. If you need a ride…"

Me going to a school dance with two of my _teachers_? Yeah, like that's ever going to happen.

But I still have to ask, as hard as it is to lift my tongue and make my mouth form the words, "Is Susan…" I mean to ask if she is going with Rabadash, but the whole sentence won't come out. My throat keeps closing. I've spoken too much today already.

Mr. Pevensie understands anyway. "Yes, I'm afraid she very probably is."

I wrinkle my nose in disgust. What does she see in him? I guess he's handsome, if you're into his sort of looks, but he's so awful. Can't she tell? He must be a very good actor, I suppose.

My senses must have been completely lost when the world ended, I must have gone mad, because I actually agree to go to the school dance with my Art Teacher.

Well, to be honest, even that's got to be better than sitting at home listening to my mother cry, wondering if my father's ever coming back or not. I bet he just sends some divorce papers in the mail. Not that I would ever say that to Mum.

Besides, even if Peter does have things well in hand, it wouldn't hurt to have an extra pair of eyes looking out for Susan. It's what Lucy would have wanted me to do. Knowing that compels me far more than I let on.

The days are going by in a blur. Nothing seems real except for my passing concentration in Art class and my anger when I notice Susan and Rabadash in the hallways.

I am so glad I don't have any classes with the two of them, since they're not in my year. It would be impossible to handle seeing with my own eyes what I hear from others about their behavior. She flirts with him in class, and supposedly he passes her notes that make her cheeks go red. If I had to sit through a class with them acting all lovey-dovey, I'd probably have to drop out. It's not only sickening, it's also scary. As I'm sure anyone with half a brain could understand, I don't trust him.

There are moments when I wonder how Peter stands it. How he stands knowing she's going out with that…that…monster. The thing is, however, I can't feel angry at him for not nipping it in the bud right away because I think-if she were my sister-my reaction wouldn't be unlike his. After all, everybody knows that forbidding a courtship only makes both parties more desperate for it. This has to be handled delicately, I know. But my nerves are completely shot.

Whenever they come to mind, I think, "What if he hurts her?"

As I sit in Art the Friday of the dance, working on my laurel-crown, which is slowly taking a real shape at last, I wonder if I'm really doing all I can. I wonder what Lucy would have done if she were here. My stomach turns and my heart sinks when I consider this. The reason? I bet, in spite of everything, Lucy would have just walked up to her and told her. Maybe Susan would have even believed it from her. Lucy almost never lied. Everyone who knew her learned this pretty quickly.

As always, I wish she was here with me. I wish I could have advice from the real Lucy. Not just a dream. Not just my conscience pricking at me. I want to see her again so badly. And I know I never will.

Gluing a silver-plated metal leaf to the side of my crown, I glance over at Caspian. His family is still too unflawed for Peter's approval. He says Caspian is still holding back from his fears. Right now he's working on a wood-carving. I like the little dog he's working on sculpting out next to one of the kids. That part doesn't actually look half-bad.

Lasaraleen's 'work' clay-bowl looks like a bunch of elephants used it for a community toilet. I bet she's the only one who winds up failing this class. Even Caspian will manage to pass if he can convince Mr. Pevensie he's trying his best. The student who pulled down his pants that one time will probably get points for enthusiasm if nothing else.

As for myself, this might be the only class that my marks aren't low in. I'm not sure I am going to pass P.E. now that the coaches have gotten it through their thick skulls that I am not going to be their new prop-forward for the school's next big rugger game. They must hate my guts.

A shy-looking boy passes a note to Lasaraleen. Leaning over, pretending to rummage through a box of gray and black markers, I read it.

It says: _Will you go to the dance with me tonight, Laceralein?_

She starts crying. I'm not sure if this is because she is sad that she already has a date since he didn't ask her any sooner, or else upset that the next possible love of her life can't spell her name. At least Peter's gotten a respite from her attentions lately-thanks to all the dance invites going around.

After class, Mr. Pevensie tells me he'll pick me up at seven. Or rather that Mr. Tumnus will, as he's the one driving. I still cannot believe I am going to a high school dance with my Art teacher in my Music teacher's car. I seriously hope the guy who takes pictures for the year-book doesn't have it in for me. Or, if he does, eats some bad sushi or something tonight.

At home, Mum doesn't say much. She hasn't become as borderline-mute as I have, she still talks plenty-only not to _me_. Most of the time she's on the phone with a workmate or else, I think, with a lawyer. It's hard to keep track.

There's usually a note on the fridge now about ribs on top of the microwave or where the money for pizza is. I just have to walk into the kitchen, read it, and nod. Really, what else do we have to say to each other now? My talking won't fix her problems. And her trying to be a proper mother in spite of everything won't fix mine. It's neither of our faults, I don't think. There's just nothing else to be done.

I assume there will be food at the dance. I flip over her note and quickly jot down where I will be on the blank side. For a second I consider reminding her she can reach me on my mobile. Then I change my mind. It's not as if she'll want to. If we aren't speaking much in person, I doubt a phone call can be excepted of us.

There is no way I am going to get dressed up in a suit. Especially since my life stinks and it's not as though I've got a girl I'm trying to impress or anything. So I just put on a sports-jacket over a clean white shirt slightly less wrinkled than most of the other articles of clothing in my closet. Also I iron a pair of slacks. I burn my finger on the iron and curse under my breath.

I am running my finger under the cold-water tap when the doorbell rings. I throw the slacks on and go to answer it. It's Peter. He's right on time.

He isn't wearing a full suit either, but I notice that, unlike me, he does have a tie on.

Mr. Tumnus, when I see him, getting into the car, has suit-pants on, no tie, and a brown leather jacket. I am impressed. He almost looks like he could have actually been a cool band-guy or something when he was younger.

Part of me wants to ask why Peter doesn't suggest Mr. Tumnus pick up Susan and Rabadash, too. That way there's less chance of something happening. Less time for them to be alone together. But I feel uncomfortable speaking up in front of Mr. Tumnus. So I don't say anything.

Once we are at the dance, I stuff my thumb-nail into my mouth. I am nervous because I don't see Rabadash or Susan yet. I know I have to remain calm. I know that Peter would kill anyone who tried to hurt her. And, to be honest, since I don't really consider her a friend anymore, I don't know why I care so much. I just do.

To my great surprise, Mr. Tumnus really gets the dance going. I'd always thought chaperones had to be boring and stand on the sidelines, glaring at students who got a little fresh with their dates. Apparently not. Mr. Tumnus can (and does) tell the DJ to put on a faster song. He even starts up one of those weird dances that everyone seems to know the moves to by osmosis.

Peter watches them with sort of a small smile on his face. I wonder if he liked dancing before he got his injury. Every few minutes, he glances over at the door-waiting for Susan and Rabadash. I cannot understand how he keeps so calm.

Finally, Susan walks in, her arm tucked under Rabadash's. He has a smug smirk on his face. I think of six different ways to rearrange it. Secretly, I think Peter could come up with eight or nine if he wasn't being so reserved.

Susan sees Mr. Tumnus leading the party, and starts to laugh. She claps her hands. Rabadash just stands there at her side with a bland expression. Trying to act cool, I guess.

I shift my gaze to Peter who walks over to them, motioning for Susan to join the others. When Rabadash tries to follow her, he grabs his shoulder and tells him he needs help with something. Rabadash can't refuse to help his date's injured brother without looking like the jerk he really is. He has no choice but to comply to Mr. Pevensie's request.

Less than a minute later, Susan's dancing with some of her friends and Rabadash is helping Peter readjust his crutch. Right when he's nearly finished, one of the bolts has 'gone missing'. Smooth work, Pete.

I stand off on one of the sidelines. Watching the different couples on the dance-floor makes me think of Lucy and miss her even more. And that hardly seems _possible_.

If she were alive, she would have come to this with me. I imagine her standing by my side. Usually I can't see her this clearly when I'm not in my basement room. There have even been times when I've found myself shaking with grief because I can't picture her face as readily as I used to. But here, tonight, she's with me.

I reach out and hold her hand in mine. She smiles so sweetly. I close my eyes and try to hold this moment for just a little while longer. For I know that when I open them again, she'll be gone. She never stays. There won't be a hand in mine once the whirling memories slow like a fan that has been unplugged.

My eyes open slowly. My fingers tighten instinctively around the hand they are holding. Wait a minute…

There's still a hand in mine? That can't be right.

It is not Lucy's hand after all. I've grabbed onto someone's hand for real. Oops! My mistake. Dreadfully sorry.

Glancing up, I see who it is. Susan Pevensie. She must have walked away from the dance-floor to take a breather. I don't remember grabbing onto her hand. That's because I was thinking about Lucy Valiant and was somewhat oblivious to my surroundings.

As if it is a flaming ball of fire, I instantly drop Susan's hand and step away.

"Sorry," I mutter.

Turning a little red in the face, she tells me not to worry about it.

Rabadash is still busy helping Peter who keeps falling over things and 'accidentally' dropping his crutch, so he didn't see me holding his date's hand. Phew. Well, there's _one_ load off of my mind.

Nothing important happens for a while. Then Rabadash finally manages to get free of Peter and is dancing with Susan.

When I see him slip his arms all the way around her, I want to throw up. I wish I could just make him disappear. But of course I can't. My stomach turns and I try not to think about how scared Lucy was that night in Bristol…

Thankfully, I am distracted by Peter and Mr. Tumnus whispering about something. No one else seems to notice them, but I suspect some kind of plan is being discussed.

A few seconds later, Mr. Tumnus joins the dance and taps Rabadash on the shoulder. "May I cut in?"

I can tell he is ticked and is about to say no, but all of Susan's friends are encouraging her to go dance with the Music teacher. He's one of the few males with a pulse in this room who can actually stay on beat, they point out. Two girls already got their feet stepped on and swore at their dates. I can believe that.

Good old Mr. Tumnus, I think, watching him dancing with Susan in a much more modest manner than Rabadash was working up to. Maybe I misjudged the poor chap when I called him a fruitcake before. It's very sweet of him to help out the Pevensie family like that. Goodness knows he doesn't have to.

At one point, towards the end of the dance, Mr. Tumnus spins her around and she goes twirling right into a certain someone who is not paying attention-again. Me.

"Oh, hi, Edmund," she says, nice as anything. I really wish she could just be more of a female dog. She would be so much easier to dislike if she were. Stomp on a fellow's foot once in a while or snub me in public. Then I wouldn't be so concerned about her well-being.

I don't say anything back.

"Hey, you haven't danced at all yet," she realizes.

I shrug my shoulders. I really couldn't care less.

The DJ calls for the last dance of the evening.

Susan smiles at me. "Do you want the last dance?"

I start to shake my head no, but then I happen to look over my shoulder at Mr. Pevensie, who's eyes are flickering towards Rabadash. I realize it is either me or the monster. Having heard that they car-pooled, I am not worried about Susan being alone with Rabadash in a parked vehicle afterwards anymore. Regardless, I'm not up to watching them dance together again, either.

I nod since it's still easier than speaking.

The whole time I am dancing with her, I sense Rabadash glowering at me. When the song ends, he approaches me and says, "Hey, I know you?"

I shake my head rapidly. No, you don't. And certainly not from any party in Bristol.

"You look familiar."

"Ed's a friend of mine," Susan tells him. She doesn't say it nonchalantly. She says it like she actually means it.

I suddenly feel much shorter. Am I smaller, I wonder? Because I feel pretty insignificant right about now. Instantly, I feel guilty about all those things I thought about us not being friends. Why does she have to be so nice all the time?

When I get home, I crawl into bed feeling more confused than ever.


	11. Model Student

I cannot believe it. I just can't. I am stunned.

Even though I haven't seen my father since he left, haven't heard anything from him, he suddenly appears in my school for a meeting with the headmaster. Sitting right next to my mother in his office and everything. A grumpy, 'I'm going to kill that boy' look across his face like nothing has happened.

Best I can figure is that the White Witch still has it in for me. I haven't done any science homework since…well, it's been so long I can't quite remember. And it isn't as if Professor Kirke's going to lie for me and say I show up to History every day like a good boy. I don't think he would _try_ to get me in trouble, but I doubt he feels much sympathy for an errant student either.

Then there's still all that rot about the P.E. coaches. Hey, they're probably all scared of the White Witch, too. For pity's sake, she's practically taller than they are, though not as wide. Now that they know I'm not of any use to them, they sure as anything don't think twice before telling the headmaster on me.

So the next logical step would be to phone my parents. I really should have seen this coming. But with all that's been going on, it came as something of a shock.

My father turning up is the cherry on top of the whole load of awfulness, though. Really, I have no idea how I am supposed to act around him now.

As soon as I have seen him, taken him in, and my brain has registered him as 'oh yeah, that's your father, stupid', I wish I were back in English, doodling a few fantasy-themed sketches with a blue pen while the teacher attempts to explain the beauty that is proper use of pronouns.

I should have stayed in my basement room, they'd probably never have found me there.

"Have a seat, Edwin," says the headmaster.

"Edmund," my mother corrects him.

I take a seat and sit with my arms folded across my chest. I'd bet any amount of money they want me to talk. To explain myself so that they can punish me.

"Wipe that surly look off of your face," my father growls at me.

Without much effort, I tighten my face into an even grumpier expression just to spite him.

The headmaster has some papers spread out on his desk. "You haven't been doing what is expected of you, Edward."

"Edmund," my mother reminds him-again.

"Right, right," says the headmaster.

I try to think of other names he could call me by mistake. Ones that begin with Ed: Edgar, Edric, Edgemont…

"Edmund!" snaps my father, glaring at me.

Oops! What were they saying just then? I wasn't paying attention.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" growls the headmaster.

"He's not saying _anything_ ," my mother realizes.

Took her long enough to figure that out, didn't it?

"You're not doing yourself any favors," says the headmaster, chuckling a little at his own joke before he even tells it. "This isn't a court of law."

It might as well be, I think. I'm already sort of condemned, right? I mean, there's no way they're just going to let me go no matter what I do.

If I did blurt out that I hate my life (and sometimes even myself), would they listen? I can't imagine they would. If I broke down crying about how much I miss Lucy Valiant, would they even try to understand? Not likely.

"Come on, Edmund," says my father, "just cut this out and explain yourself."

No. You can't make me.

"Are the two of you having problems?" asks the headmaster in a low voice as if I am not going to understand what he is asking my parents.

My father glares at him and says that doesn't matter. They're not here to talk about _them_. This is all about me. Stubborn, willful, mute, angry, unresponsive, me.

Why is it that when you want attention you have to fight to get it, but when you don't want it, it's shoveled into your face faster than you can comprehend?

"Has he been through anything…er…traumatic…recently?"

Father glowers. Even though this is about me and not about him, just what he said he wanted, he's still displeased. I wonder if he would have preferred me to go to school in the old days when the headmaster would have just warmed my behind up with a wooden paddle until I broke down and talked.

"His girlfriend…died…" Mum falters.

Good of you to remember, I say in my head sarcastically.

"This has nothing to do with that," says my father. "He's just being difficult."

And you would know that _how_? It just so happens to have everything in the world to do with that. Well, that and a few other things. Susan dating Rabadash doesn't help my cause much. And I am not difficult. I'm complex. So there!

"You know," my father goes on, "I bet the rotten influences at this place aren't helping him much. Exactly what sort of kids do you have roaming these halls?"

"Well," says the headmaster diplomatically, "I can't speak for every single child in this building, but, with all due respect, no one's seen your son spending time with the wrong crowd."

I make a mental note to figure out who the wrong crowd is and be seen with them. I won't talk to them or anything, I just want to see how people react when I sit at their table for lunch one day without so much as an invitation. That would mean actually going into the cafeteria once in a while, though. Darn. Probably not worth it. Shame.

The headmaster's secretary, a blonde woman with a high-pitched voice, chimes in, "Actually, Edmund has some very nice friends. I've seen him talking to Susan Pevensie. Lovely girl, she's always such a help…"

How did my session with the headmaster turn into 'ode to the glory that is Susan'? Can someone please explain this to me?

"You've seen him _talking_?" My mother snips, arching a brow.

I wonder if she knows how insensitive that sounds.

"Well, I don't recall." The secretary opens a pack of gum and pops a few strips of green-and-white mint into her mouth.

"Susan hangs out with some very nice people," the headmaster notes.

Are all educators this way? So clueless? So easily distracted? At this rate, I'll be avoiding any real punishment altogether in favor of them talking about nominating Susan for best dressed instead of worrying about me.

"Are those your friends, Ed?" asks Mum.

I slump in my chair and shrug my shoulders indifferently. Part of me wants to shift uncomfortably under my father's furious gaze, but that look can't scare me now. I am too far gone. Nothing they can say can hurt me.

Finally, after what feels like for ever, they all resort to ignoring me and talking about me getting professional help as if I'm not even there. As if I'm not listening to every word they say and mocking them in my head. What do they know about me? About what I go through?

It all comes down to this: I will have to be more careful. If I ever want a moment of peace, by myself, I have to earn their trust back to some degree. I don't want them hauling me into some psychiatrist's office because I never show up to class. They can't just expel me, I don't think, because they're convinced by this point that I fall more under 'mentally unstable' than 'rebel'. So they'll try to analyze me, make me talk. And I won't want to. And they'll punish me. So I'll become even worse just to get their goat. Why start that whole mess when I can avoid it? I have made up my mind.

I vow to go to all my classes (even the White Witch's) for a few weeks, until they've all gotten this out of their system. Then, when I'm nobody again, I'll reassume my basement room ways. That's what I must do.

So, because I know I will not be there for a while, I go down to the basement room at lunch to sort of make up for soon-to-be-lost time.

I admire my drawings on the wall. I glance up at the Jack Lewis poster. I think I remember reading somewhere once that he had a frozen knuckle as a child and couldn't play sports with the other boys. Another outsider. Like me, though for different reasons. I'm glad I hung the poster up here. It would have been a pity for it to have been thrown away.

My laurel-crown is almost finished, just a few more adjustments. I've been keeping it in here, hanging from a little brass hook made for hats and coats. I always come and pick it up right before Art class.

It will be sort of strange not coming here every day. Sitting up in class, knowing this room is going to be empty, untouched, for so long. But not for ever.

I wonder how I will endure being the White Witch's victim again. Then I remember what I thought while I was in the headmaster's office. That they couldn't hurt me anymore. Maybe she can't either. I wonder if that is a good thing or a bad thing. I don't know.

The hardest part about staying away from here until the dust settles, will be that this was the one place thinking about Lucy was easiest. With the exception of that embarrassing moment at the dance when I grabbed onto Susan Pevensie's hand (yes, we all saw that episode, no need to recap!), this was the one place it didn't hurt as much to remember.

Leaning back on one of my cushions, I close my eyes half-way. One more memory in this place, I think, one last little thing to hold onto to get me through the days. I wonder what I will remember. I never can be sure. Sometimes memories swoop down on me slowly. When that happens, I can see them on the horizon and ready myself. But when they come flashing through like an electrical storm, it's harder to be prepared.

This time, it seems, it is neither. Not soft, not hard. Not a flash. Just simply what it is. A memory. Not too quiet, nor too loud. Just normality. Only deeper. Much deeper. In its own way.

* * *

"All right," chuckled Edmund, shaking his head and pulling away, laughing along with her even though he hadn't the foggiest idea why, "what is so funny?"

"Nothing," Lucy insisted, biting back a grin. "I'm sorry."

Having both realized that, although they had decided to start calling themselves boyfriend and girlfriend, they hadn't actually kissed yet, they were attempting to 'give it a go'. The only problem was that every time Edmund came near her with his head tilted, she burst out laughing.

"Do I have a booger or a piece of spinach in my teeth or something?" Edmund had to ask, beginning to feel a little self-conscious.

"Well," said Lucy in a pretend-serious voice, "you would actually have to _eat_ spinach in the first place to have it stuck between your teeth."

Figures she'd remember I hate spinach, Edmund thought. Out loud, he said, "So it's the booger, then?"

She shook her head, trying not to crack up again. "No worries, Ed."

Sighing, he leaned forward again.

Lucy couldn't help it; his lips hadn't come within a full inch of hers before she burst out laughing again.

"I'm sorry," she gasped out in-between giggles. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

"That's fine," said Edmund, feeling more amused than frustrated. "Maybe I should…"

"Should what?" Lucy was afraid he meant to say he should go.

But leaving was the farthest thing from his mind at the moment, so she had no reason to worry.

"Nothing…" His face was turning a little red.

Lucy, never having kissed a boy or been kissed by one, hadn't the faintest notion of how to go about it. At least, she figured if she could only will herself to stop giggling wildly every time Ed came near her, that might be a start. But how to go about it in general was a little more confusing.

"All right, perhaps I should explain what I'm doing," Edmund said after a somewhat awkward pause, as though he were a great authority on the subject when, really, he didn't know _that_ much more about it than she did; "I'm just going to put my arm around you like this," -one of his arms slipped around her waist- "and then we sort of try the leaning thing again…"

However nervous she felt, Lucy managed to keep most of her laughter in check this time, and followed his lead as their faces came closer together.

"Then we…" his voice trailed off as their lips met and he started to kiss her.

Pulling away and opening his eyes, Edmund glanced up, noticed Mr. Valiant standing next to the living-room couch they were sitting on, glaring at him, and grimaced.

"And then I get up and run for my life," he added quickly, letting go of Lucy's waist and jumping up off the couch, trying to make a break for it. "Bye, Mr. Valiant!"

Unfortunately for him, Lucy's father was not about to let him get off that easy, grabbing him by the ear and dragging him out of the room.

"Ow!" he protested, wondering if a person's ear could be yanked clean off.

Perhaps, he thought as he rubbed his sore ear, standing on the porch after having the door slammed in his face, it wasn't the best idea to try to kiss for the first time ever in her house…even though we thought her father was busy with an important phone call...

* * *

For the next three weeks, I am the poster child for good attendance. I don't talk or participate, but I do show up to every class. Even science.

When the White Witch mocks my supposed stupidity and embarrasses me in front of the class by writing my current marks for her class (already quite low) on the board and then erasing and lowering them every time I don't answer her or she just feels like sticking it to me, I don't say a word.

Professor Kirke comments on how well I'm doing on my History reports. I give him that same fake, gargoyle-impression face I used to give to the coaches.

In Art, I finish my laurel-crown. Peter is impressed. Lasaraleen gushes over how 'pretty' it is. Caspian just says, "Good job, mate." Time to start a new drawing, I suppose.

The hallways are filled with students. Plenty of them are probably couples. But I only notice one couple when I wall from class to class. Rabadash and Susan. Still together, still happy, still sickening. I want Peter to grab Rabadash's ear the same way Mr. Valiant grabbed mine and hurl him into moving traffic. I haven't the foggiest notion how he stands it.

Sometimes I see him with his arm around her. Twice, I've see them holding hands. If I still knew how to speak, if the world still turned, I imagine I would stand up on a soap-box and scream, "For the love of God, dump him already!" into a megaphone as they pass by.

The worst part is that she always acknowledges me. She never just brushes by without a hand wave or a kind greeting. I bet Rabadash is the jealous sort and doesn't like this. But, of course, I really could care less what he likes. I just want him gone.

Not only is what he tried to do horrible in itself…worse still is knowing that if I hadn't been there…if nothing had stopped him…he might have done unspeakable things to an innocent girl and gotten away with it.

My mother has stopped asking to see my homework, satisfied that I am back on the right course for the most part-even if I'm failing science. I don't know where my father is. I haven't heard from him since that day in the headmaster's office. Whatever. The point is that I know my plan is working. Soon, I will be able to retreat back into myself again. Back into my basement room. Where it is safe.

I feel guilty knowing that that is not what Lucy would want me to do. If she were alive, she'd want me to move on with my life. She wouldn't want my world to be over. She would want me to find happiness. Only, I'm not sure I know how to do that. I'm not sure I know much of anything anymore, actually.

The one thing I do know: it's high-time for another mental health day.


	12. More Mental Health

Faking sick is complicated. And, truth is, I'm not sure I'm up for it. It's just too involved. I don't think Mum will be up for it either. She's not unreasonable when it comes to such things, considering how nice she was about the first mental-health day I took. Leaving those marshmallows was a pretty sweet gesture. But I'm not sure, after only three weeks of my being good, she'll believe me.

Besides, I don't want to have to talk to her. I am not up to a full conversation. So I'll just have to spend my mental-health day somewhere other than at home.

I drag myself out of bed so early that it is still dark out as I get dressed and brush my teeth. I take all of my school-books except for my sketching pad out of my satchel to lighten the load. If I'm not going to school anyway, why have all that stuff weighing me down?

So I don't get found out, I stuff the books into the back of my closet and cover them with an old sweater I haven't put on since I was ten. I highly doubt my mother (with all she's going through) will suddenly decide to clean back there and move the sweater.

Moving swiftly but quietly, I creep down the stairs and walk out the door just as the sun is rising. I do not think Mum will wake up early enough to notice my absence. These days she's so depressed that when she doesn't have to be at work, she's usually up in her room sleeping until someone from her job calls with an emergency. Then she just sort of dashes out the door without checking for much of anything.

I wonder why I didn't think of trying this whole skipping-school-completely thing any sooner this year.

I come across a bakery and buy myself a muffin with the little bit of pocket money I have on me. I eat about half the muffin before it starts to taste like sawdust and my hunger subsides. The rest of it ends up in a dustbin outside of a used furniture store.

Not sure what to do next, I try to remember the last time I cut school like this. My throat dries out immediately. Lucy was with me the last time. Another thing I'm glad Mr. Valiant never found out about. He would have had my head if he ever knew that his daughter was sitting more or less in my lap on a picnic blanket in the middle of the local park with my arms wrapped around her when she was supposed to be in History and English. But, in my defense, it was only one time. It's not as though I completely corrupted her into never going to class or anything. We'd just wanted some time alone together. Which, believe you me, we didn't get a whole lot of.

I'd known things were getting sort of steep when Mr. Valiant came over to have a 'talk' with my father about how much time I was spending with his daughter. That didn't end well. It happened right after he caught me kissing her in the living room and pulled me out by the ear. I'd thought getting thrown out of the house in such a fashion would be the end of it. Of course, it wasn't. I ended up having to sit through a whole lot of grilling from my parents on 'my intentions'. Needless to say, very uncomfortable.

Don't think about it. Don't think about it. I can't think about it. About her. It still hurts. I don't think it ever stops hurting. If it was going to, wouldn't it have by now?

I spend half the morning in the park, watching all these little old ladies power-walking with their dogs. Mostly labs. Yellow and black. I do spot an almost-white one twice, though. I consider sitting with the old men feeding the ducks, of which there are about four total (the men, I mean, not the ducks), so that I look less like a teenage junkie plotting something. I don't want to give anyone the creeps.

Thing is, I know I probably do anyway. After all, I have dark circles under my eyes, and I know I've lost weight. My clothes don't fit quite right and everyone who sees me must know I'm not old enough to be out on a school-day without skipping. I wonder if anyone will think of turning me in. I wonder if I will care either way.

If I was ever going to talk about it, about what I've been going through, I sometimes ponder over how I would start. And who I would talk to. I can't talk to my parents. That's clear. Part of me wants to talk to Peter, but both the fact that he's my Art teacher and the fact that he was in the same accident as Lucy was, makes him a little too close for comfort. I'm not sure I could talk to him either. Although I know he's been trying to help.

There are moments when I think I'd rather never talk to anyone if only I could console myself with putting blame somewhere. Somewhere I can deal with it. When I feel guilty, wondering if what happened was my fault, my chest tightens and I feel like I'm drowning.

I can't help wondering if I'd ever had a pet and it had died, would I have learned something about this? I wasn't prepared. I didn't know. No one told me.

Nobody ever told me that it isn't just old uncles and your neighbor's dog (or your best chum's goldfish) that can suddenly die. I was never informed that young, sweet girls die, too. Even if they're innocent and kind and you love them. Even if they're all you have. Even if you'd have given up your own life in their behalf if you could. No one says it, because they're all afraid. It's like a great taboo or something. But simply not talking about it doesn't make it go away. I of all people would know that keeping silent doesn't change things.

I've been in endless pain since that visit to the morgue. When I talk I feel drained, and when I don't I feel bottled up and lonely. I don't want to be lonely, but it's the safest place to be. I think I've figured it out now.

Alone, nothing can touch me, nothing can hurt me, nothing can reach me. There's nothing wrong with being a loner…provided that you truly _want_ to be alone. That it isn't just fear holding you back. That's what it is for me. I'm not happy. I know I'm not. I'm afraid to be. Afraid of being hurt again. Afraid of being disloyal to her memory. Afraid of moving on. Afraid of coming clean. Afraid of speaking up. Just afraid.

After I am tried of the park, I walk to the subway station and look at the magazines on the news-stands for a while.

My stomach grumbles a little around lunchtime, but I haven't brought anything to eat with me and I don't have any more pocket money. Probably I would have been smarter to have saved the other half of my muffin. Oh well. You live, you learn.

Dragging my feet along the sidewalk, I wonder how many days of school are left. I've lost count. It could be a whole lot, or else most of the year could be over. I'm not certain. Not that it matters. The year could end, but I'd very likely be miserable in the summer, too.

For the first time, I wonder what I want to do with myself-apart from lying in bed with the covers over my head. I think I should very much like to keep on with my drawings. I'm actually starting to really like them. And making that laurel-crown was fun, too. Wouldn't it be something else if I turned out to have a real artistic bone in my body after all!

Besides drawing, I can't fathom what I have to look forward to. Do I want to go to a university some day? My parents want me to, I'm sure of it. But do _I_ want that? What would I do there? More of what I'm doing now? Wishing I was some place else, dreaming of the moments I can steal myself away and just hide out? Wasting money and space when I won't even know what I'm doing there?

I get on the subway. I know where I am going now, though I haven't been there since the day of the funeral.

The squeaking iron gates at the entrance and the rustling of the leaves in the trees as the wind blows through them are the only parts of the grave-yard that aren't as dead-silent as I've become. Everything else is still.

And why would it not be? Everyone who comes to rest here isn't thinking anymore…they've died and it's quieted them. I want to believe that they'll all come back some day somehow. Especially Lucy. But I'm not sure I really do think it's possible. It could be. Maybe in another world or time. For right now, though, this is what we've got. What I've got.

I look down at the tombstone I came here to see: ' _In loving memory of Lucy Rose Valiant; dear daughter, dear friend'_.

Swallowing hard to clear my throat, I wish I had been able to bring flowers, or at least _one_ flower. Something to put on her grave. It seems sort of pathetic, me just standing here with my hands behind my back, my eyes watery.

I also wish I had come sooner. Painful as it would have been. Well, perhaps I just wasn't ready. I'm hardly read now as it is. I am close to a break down. I can feel my hands shaking.

Slowly, I ease down onto my knees. I bring my finger-tips to my lips and then I press them to the earth next to the stone; I know her body is in a coffin under there.

If I still talked, I think I would feel the urge to whisper to her. Even though I know perfectly well she wouldn't be able to hear me. That she's gone.

Getting up, my jeans now slightly mulch-stained at the knees, I walk over to a bench a ways off from the path around the tombstones. I take out my sketch pad, knowing I want to draw something, not sure what that something is.

Before I can take out my pencil, I realize that there is someone sitting beside me. They were so quiet that I hadn't noticed them. I look up to catch a glimpse of their face.

It is Mr. Valiant, Lucy's father.

"Hi," he says, acknowledging me now that I know he is there.

I nod in greeting.

"Been here long?"

I shrug and blink.

He must know I am skipping school, but he doesn't call me on it. This is the most melancholy I have ever seen him. Another bit of proof towards my end of the world theory. This is not the Mr. Valiant I know. Not the man who hates me. Just a broken fellow, looking far more aged than he actually is. Most of his worry-lines on his face are brand-new, and his eyes are dull and worn-out.

"I miss her," he comments vaguely.

Me too, I say in my head.

"But, you know," he goes on, "we can't…we can't hold onto things…people…accidents happen…"

I don't know what he's building up to, nor do I entirely care. I am preparing to drone him out, sensing so-called 'words of wisdom' on the rise. That is the last thing I want to hear. He's just another person, I figure, who doesn't understand. Maybe he misses her as much as I do. Or maybe he misses her even more. I'm willing to accept that possibility. It's understandable, she was his daughter after all. But I don't want to hear why I have to let go. I don't want to hear about how death touches everyone. There's nothing comforting in that. And even if there was, I'm not sure he's the person I'd want such comfort from. I don't mean to be haughty, or rude, I…I don't know…there are some things you just can't ask a chap to stomach.

His voice trails off.

I stare into space.

He picks up again, no longer sounding like he's trying to make a speech. "I just wish I could see her again…one more time…to say goodbye if nothing else. I want to see her again."

"So do I," I mumble under my breath, quickly willing myself back into silence. I am afraid that if I speak anymore I will cry.

Mr. Valiant beats me to it. Unexpectedly and without warning, the man's shoulders are shaking and tears are rolling down his face.

Awkwardly, I put a hand on his violently-shivering arm, half-assuming he is going to push me away. But he doesn't. Instead he turns and embraces me and starts sobbing even harder. I can't help it, I am crying with him now.

After a while, he gets up and leaves. He does not say a word to me, nor I to him. There is nothing to be said.

I stay a while longer, feeling empty. Occasionally I glance down at my sketch pad, though nothing comes to me. Then I have to hurry to catch the subway that will take me home on time, very much as if I were at school.

School. For the first time since I decided to take the day off, I wonder what was going on there today. Nothing important probably. The White Witch's glinting eyes, Professor Kirke's unfading smell of tobacco, and a bunch of kids I don't know or like. Hmm, I almost wish I could take more days off. Art, I feel a little guilty about missing, though, I have to admit. I wonder what everybody there is working on. How Peter's doing, if his leg is any better. I guess I will find out tomorrow at any rate.

When I get home, Mum isn't there and I breathe a little sigh of relief. Whenever she gets home, she'll probably just figure I went to school like a good boy and then came back and did my homework before taking a well-earned nap. No need to upset her. Better still, no need to lie. At least not directly.

Late at night, I can't fall asleep and I take out the sketch pad again. I start to draw an outline of myself lying on my back. The me in the drawing looks pathetic, weak, limp. I haven't the foggiest idea what it has to do with anything, never-mind the fantasy theme I am supposed to be working on, but eventually my confusion makes me sleepy. I yawn and doze off at last.

The weekend comes around and my father graces the family with his presence. He wants to take me out to lunch.

Whatever. I bet he'll like lunch with me the way I am now. It doesn't matter what he has to say, I'll just go with it rather than speak up or argue. But, a small, stubborn part of me hopes it annoys him as well. I don't know when I first realized just how angry I was with him, but I'm quite certain of it now.

Mother says I have to go. I roll my eyes and look sullen, even though I don't care. Despite the fact I know I would have been cross with her if she'd said I didn't have to. I would have thought it wasn't very good mothering on her part, and I think she knows that. She's smarter than I give her credit for. Sometimes I wish I were a better son.

Apparently my father isn't up to giving the whole 'what happened between your mother and I wasn't your fault…' speech while I sit picking at my food, because after a few attempts at starting a supposedly deep and meaningful conversation, he gives in and drops it.

After a while, he notices I'm not eating much, and sort of grunts, "Since when do you not like spinach?"

Since the day I said, 'Ew, gross, what is this beastly stuff?' and you said spinach.

I stare out the window our table is next to.

"Edmund," he tries.

I barely look at him.

"Forget it." He exhales sharply.

Right back at you, I think.

I wish it were Monday. Even being in school is better than this.


	13. Healing of Harms

Miracles _can_ happen.

I figured it out when I walked into Art class today and saw that Peter was absolutely _beaming_. He might try his best to hide it, but he isn't fooling anybody.

Susan and Rabadash broke up.

I feel so light all of a sudden. Dark in my core, still, but so light everywhere else. As close to giddy as I ever get these days. I don't smile outwardly. Inside, a small grin is turning upwards.

From listening to the conversations of passersby in the hallways, I manage to piece together a vague story. It isn't very clear, and many of the 'facts' contradict themselves repeatedly. Nonetheless, I am glad enough of it. Even if it's turning into the school's very own urban myth.

It appears as though Lasaraleen told Jenny who told Brook who told Stacie who told Corin that Rabadash beat the living daylights out of that boy who always calls Susan 'Phyllis'. The boy wouldn't fight him because Susan had asked him not to, assuming that Rabadash would catch on and the fight would be avoided altogether. As I could have told her if I still spoke: no way was that going to happen.

He gave the poor chap a licking right in front of her, not caring that his opponent wasn't fighting back. That boy is in the hospital now. I must remember to send a card.

Anyway, Rabadash was suspended and dumped on the same day. Thank God.

I hope that will be the end of my knowledge of him from now on. And, of course, I hope that Susan's doing all right, too. I assume she's okay. Peter wouldn't be quite so happy if she wasn't, I don't think.

My new drawing is coming along very slowly. With each line I sketch out, the me in the picture looks more ghastly, more broken.

'Wounded in battle', I come up with when Peter asks what it's supposed to be.

He winces slightly and says he thinks I can do better than that. I know he's right, I just feel stuck. I wish he could give me another book that would help-like he did with my faun picture. But somehow I don't think that will work with this one. This one is different. Mr. Pevensie helped me onto the path leading me to this drawing. Now I have to find my own way through it.

I am in my basement room when something resembling a flow comes to me. I draw and draw without thinking about it. Line after line. My pencil breaks, I sharpen it. It wears to nothing, I toss it aside and pick up another one. No colour, only black and white lines.

Finally (I don't know how much later) I stop and see what I have drawn. There is a girl sitting beside my war-torn figure laid out on the ground. Her face is not unlike Lucy Valiant's. One of her hands is cupped like she is supposed to be holding something. Clearly the drawing isn't done yet. But I am still surprised. I hadn't intended to add her in.

I wonder what she is supposed to be holding. I think of the fire-flower pressed into that book I still have yet to read.

At first I start to draw the bud of what is supposed to be a similarly-shaped flower above her hand, thinking that I will add the stem in afterwards. But it doesn't take on the right shape and it becomes a little flask instead. The little flower-bud re-worked into its stopper.

The flask is partly open-and tilted. My mouth, well, originally, it was drawn closed. I was even tempted at one point, when my thoughts temporarily cleared, to add a gag over my mouth. But it would be out of place. Instead, I carefully run the tip of an eraser over my poorly-sketched lips and draw them again. This time they are parted, open. Gasping for air. For words. Me, gasping to speak.

My hand cramps up. I place my pencil down and let the sketching-pad fall from my lap to the floor. My eyes close and I sleep for a little while. Dreamless. Then she is there. She is sitting beside me holding the fire-flower.

As she leans closer, it becomes the flask from my drawing. It sparkles as though it is made of diamond. The liquid sloshing inside, though it was colourless in my picture, is a dark, blood-red. Fiery, like the flower.

She lets a drop fall into my mouth. I gasp and choke.

Waking up, I find that a drop of water from a small leak in the pipes above me has fallen into my mouth. I sit up to avoid choking for real. Although I am awake, she is still with me. I can still see her when I close my eyes.

It happened. Lucy Valiant died last year in a railway accident. There's nothing I can do to change that. But I as much as I have fought against moving forward, I realize now that I didn't die with her. She's dead. I'm still alive. I don't have to like it, but there comes a point when I have to accept it.

After school, tears in my eyes, I take the subway to the graveyard. This time I have brought a white rose with me.

Kneeling at her tombstone, I place the rose down.

My voice comes, but it sounds so strange, hearing my own voice. Low, yet not entirely mumbling.

"This doesn't mean I'm going to forget about you," I say softly. "And it doesn't mean I'm never going to have my moments when I don't wish I had done things differently, when I don't wonder if something I could have done could have saved you and stopped what happened. But I think I understand now what I couldn't face before. I love you, Lu, but I know you're gone. I know you can't hear me now. This isn't about you anymore. This is about me living the way the things I learned from you taught me. I don't want to forget and I don't want to fall apart. Some day, I'm still going to buy a house with an orchard like I promised-even though I know you won't be there to see it. And I'm going to start talking again. It's going to be hard, I'll probably have an awful time of it at first. But, Lucy, do you know what I'm going to do when I think I can't stand it anymore? I'm going to think that you would be proud of me-and that's going to get me through it. Maybe I just have to string the small things, and the few memories I have of us, together. Perhaps that's all I can really ask for. I guess what I mean to say is, I'm going to be all right and that no matter what part of you will always be with me."

I swallow hard and glance both ways. Somehow I hadn't realized that I was trembling and my eyes were half-way shut.

As I stand up, I glance both ways. I hope no one heard me. Not because I didn't mean every word, and not because I feel embarrassed talking to my dead girlfriend even though she can't hear me-so it's more like talking to myself. Rather, it's because there are simply some things that are meant to be private. Some feelings and changes and hopes and fears that only happen deep down inside of a person. When they surface, it ought to be common courtesy for others not to incline their ears. That's how, I think, it's supposed to be.

At home, I ask my mother what we're having for supper. I assume it will be take-out or pizza, as she hasn't cooked much since my father left, but I ask anyway.

It takes a moment to register before she realizes this is the first time in a while I've spoken up out of my own free will.

A little stunned, she says, "I was actually thinking of trying to make pork."

I remember one time when I was about eleven and she attempted to make a special dish involving pork and mayonnaise. Someone told her it would taste good. It was horrible. Simply ghastly mix. We ended up burying it in the back-yard and found out that the neighbor's beagle had been mistaking my father's missing tools for bones.

"Or I could just make rice and beans," she amends. I think she remembers the mayonnaise disaster, too.

"Yeah, sounds good."

"Hey," she says as I am heading for the stairs, "are you all right?"

"I will be," I tell her. Smiling semi-sadly to myself, I sigh, "I will be."

Glancing over my shoulder, I can see her with this puzzled expression on her face like she's wondering, 'Was that _my_ son?'

I guess I can't really blame her. Given, she's been pretty wrapped up in her own problems lately, but she is a mother. I bet she's missed me. Maybe a little bit.

The next day, I have Art for my last class. The bell rings and I am finishing my drawing.

The likeness to Lucy is more apparent now (at least, I think so) and the background of rolling hills and strange craggy mountains fills the missing fantasy void. Just in case, I also added an empty helmet a ways off from where the me in the drawing is lying.

The only bit of colour in the black-and-white still is the drop of red liquid coming close to my mouth. I've erased it at least four times since starting. Each time the drop has been re-added closer to me. Now it will stay where it is, that's why I am finally able to add the colour.

A few tears escape and I quickly brush them away, wiping my nose on the back of my sleeve. I don't think Peter would appreciate me crying all over his sparse art supplies.

Mr. Pevensie strolls over and looks down at my work. I realize that everyone else has cleared out of the classroom already. How long ago, I couldn't say.

"Very nice," he tells me, "you worked really hard on this. It shows."

I want to speak. My throat is dry. It closes. I can't do it. I think of Lucy. I think of everything I've been through this year. Yes, I can do it. And I will, too.

My jaw turns from stone to flesh. The ice slowly melts. Spring is coming. "Can we talk?"

Peter looks a little surprised, but he agrees. "Sure."

We don't talk at the school or in the classroom. Instead, we take the subway to a small café (Peter's idea-he wanted a cup of coffee).

The waitress looks annoyed when she sees me even though she doesn't know me. I guess the sullen expression I've been wearing on my face all year is still there to some extent. That is hardly surprising. A person doesn't heal all at once.

Then she notices Peter. He's young, on a crutch, decent-looking, and not that far off from her own age. The only other single guys in this place today are old, fat, or else _me_. Needless to say, he stands out. She practically melts into a puddle of goo. Our orders end up being on the house. The only catch? Her phone number magically appears on the back of his napkin.

When the waitress stops gazing at Peter and finally gets back to work, I begin to talk. It's so odd, speaking and having someone listen like this.

I tell him everything. About the party in Bristol, about the morgue, about my parents.

He doesn't say everything's going to be all right. And he doesn't defend my parents even though he's a grown-up and it's their code or something. He just listens and sips his coffee pensively. I like him. I sort of wish I had spoken up sooner. I couldn't though, and I know it.

"You've been through a lot," he comments when I have finished.

"I'm going to try and move passed it," I tell him. "I think that's what Lucy would have wanted."

He says, "Just remember that moving on doesn't mean forgetting."

"I think I finally figured that out."

"I miss her, too," Peter says rather sadly. "Even though I didn't see her very often."

"Thanks…for everything…" I wish I could better express how grateful I am to him, but I think he understands anyway.

"You're welcome." He glances up at the ceiling fan whirling above our heads.

"Why did you do it?" I ask. I have to know. "Ever since the beginning of this year, you and your sister have been trying to be my friends. And I've just pulled myself further away. Why did you keep trying?"

"Because, Edmund, I know you're not really like that," says Peter, kindly. "We've both known that we were just dealing with someone who was going through a hard time and needed real friends. All we could do was try to be those friends, if you let us."

"I see."

"Speaking of my sister, she asked me for your phone number yesterday."

I almost spit out the tea I am drinking.

"If you wanted to call her, I, um-" he clears his throat, coughing into the palm of his hand, "-wouldn't object."

"I'll keep that in mind," I tell him, cleaning up the little mess I have made on the table in front of me. By Jove, I think, she sure got over that creep Rabadash fast.

I am not sure if I am going to call her. I might. At least, I want to be her friend again if nothing else. I think, after all that's been going on, we owe each other that much. It could be something more…with time…but I'm not sure.

We're very different. Even if we tried, there's a good chance it wouldn't work out. What's more is that I would have to consider whether or not it would be fair to her. Lucy Valiant will always be my first. No matter who else comes into my life. But we'll see. Some things happen over-night, other things don't. Life is funny that way. And I've decided not to be afraid of it anymore. Or, at least, I'm not going to let my fear stop me from living it.

Some days will be easier than others. There will still be tears. Moments when I will feel as though I can't go on. But I will break through my own silence even then.

The year slides by slowly and quickly at turns. Then it is going to be summer again. I cannot believe I've made it through a whole year.

I walk into the Art room to see Peter packing up some of his things. Lasaraleen is crying. When I ask what on earth the matter is, she says it's because her 'love' isn't coming back next year.

"You're not going to be teaching here anymore?" I ask him (Lasaraleen gets distracted by a bright shinny object in the hallway and leaves), genuinely surprised.

He turns a little red in the face. "It was fun while it lasted."

"What will you do now?"

A little sadly, "I might try to get into medical school."

 _Go back to medical school, Pevensie._ I feel horrible. I want to smack myself for saying that so many times in my head.

"But don't you like teaching Art?"

Peter picks up his crutch with more ease now. His leg is slowly healing. It is still prone to giving out on him from time to time, so he keeps the crutch near at hand, but he doesn't need it as badly these days. "Come on, it's not like anyone's learned anything from me-we both know that."

No, I didn't even know you _thought_ that, I say in my head. And it isn't true. I am going to prove that to him.

"Can I show you something?"

"Sure." He follows me down into the basement. I know he is wondering what this is all about.

Since I've started talking again, I've used the room a lot less than I used to. All the same, I still go in there from time to time just to think and to hang my drawings on the wall. I will have to take it all down before I leave today, I suppose, but I don't mind. It was worth it. I am glad I've been putting it off. Because now I have something to show Peter. To show Mr. Pevensie all he taught me this year.

"Go on in," I hold the door to my little room open for him.

He steps in and I see his lips curl up. Looking around, he sees all my drawings and my laurel-crown model.

His eyes grow a little misty. I pretend not to notice this.

"I think you've figured out your word very well, Mr. Justaciturn." I notice he is struggling to hold back a proud smile and keep the whole thing professional.

I stand there for a while with a smile of my own. Sometimes doing the right thing and speaking up feels pretty darn good. Like right now, for instance.


	14. The Passing of Time

Five years. That's how long it's been. Almost six, actually, since I lost her.

Once or twice a week, I visit her grave and leave something. Usually some sort of flower-often a rose.

Upon occasion, I see her parents there. We don't say much to each other. We never really had a great deal in common aside from loving the same person. But that is enough for us. There is an understanding between the three of us in each nod, greeting, and small smile exchanged. We all loved Lucy, and this is the place we can come to remember her. That is enough for us. Or, rather, it has to be.

I closed on a house the other day. A house with an apple orchard in the back. Given, it will be a very long time until I can settle down there.

I'm in university now.

One might rightly wonder how I could afford to buy a house when everything with my education is so hopelessly expensive. Well, I'm sort of kind of there on a rugger scholarship. But before you get too disappointed, I'm still drawing. The reason I decided to take the scholarship in the first place was because they happen to have a wonderful Art program here as well.

As for my new house, well, Peter chipped in a bit. Okay, Peter chipped in a lot. I'm going to pay him back, though. After I graduate. Besides, he can afford it. One of his paintings just sold for a million pounds. He's getting quite famous. Needless to say, he didn't end up going to medical school after all.

Today I have just won one of the biggest rugger games for the university this year. I feel tired, a little sore, and quite sweaty. But to be honest, I also feel pretty good.

I am getting so many congratulations that I hardly know who's hand I'm shaking at what moment.

Then a loud voice starts going, "Okay, move it people, unless you want to be knocked down."

Thunder-Fist is elbowing his way through the crowd like a weed-whacker, dragging Susan by the wrist behind him.

"Prop-forward's girlfriend coming through!" he yells at my teammates who have decided this would be a good time for a group hug. All I'm thinking is that they really need to hit the showers right about now.

Someone gives Thunder-Fist a rather funny look after he brings up the 'girlfriend' thing. He wrinkles his nose. Motioning at Susan, he goes, " _Her_ , you idiot, not me!"

"You won!" cries Susan when she finally reaches me. She pries me away from my teammates and throws herself into my arms.

I spin her around twice before putting her back on the ground.

"Way to go, Justaciturn!" Peter comes over. Apparently he came to see the game, too.

"Come off it." I cock my head to the side, slightly irritated. "Don't we know each other well enough for you to call me Edmund more often?"

"At least he's finally dropped the 'Mister'," says Susan, shaking her head. "It's progress."

"I think we know each other well enough for me to call you 'Eddie'," Peter teases.

"Justaciturn is fine," I assure him hastily.

"Smile!" Thunder-Fist's twin brother snaps a picture of us. He's got an internship with a real newspaper now. Local and small and all that rot, but he seems happy. That's what really matters, I suppose.

Thunder-Fist himself is in the middle of a fight with one of my shorter team-mates. Hardly surprising. It's when he's _not_ fighting that we get concerned.

All the same, Peter asks, "What are you doing?"

"I'm about to box the snot out the dwarf!"

The 'dwarf' whimpers and takes off like the wind. What a flyer! I remember why he made the team in the first place now.

"Hey, get back here!" shouts Thunder-Fist, running after him.

"So," Peter says, choosing to ignore the ensuing fight in the background for now, "why don't we celebrate? We can have dinner some place."

"Sounds good," Susan tells him.

"I'm game," I put in.

"Who's car are we taking?" asks Susan.

"We can take mine," Peter offers, taking the keys out of his pocket. He has a new sports car.

When he first drove up to the university in it to pay me a visit last month, he was suddenly surrounded by half of the student population, all willing to become best friends with him. I heard a few teachers and visiting parents magically appeared at his elbow, too.

It's beautiful out. The sky has been blue all day and it's a purplish crimson now that the sun is getting lower.

The ride to the restaurant is mostly quiet except for the sound of the radio.

I'd bet anyone else with a sport's car would start drag-racing. Riding with Peter, however, tends to be more akin to a reenactment of 'Driving Miss Daisy'. As Susan has frequently felt the need to point out when they're late getting somewhere because he more or less came to a full stop at a yellow light instead of trying to make it. Good old Pete.

While we are taking our seats in the restaurant, I notice something out of the corner of my eye. There is a grumpy-looking, dark-faced maintenance man holding a plunger. He is pouty and sullen. He is also rather over-weight and greasy in appearance.

I know I've seen him somewhere before but I cannot place him. I squint and rack my brain. Then it hits me. This is Rabadash. Yes, the same Rabadash that used to go out with my current girlfriend and once attempted to attack my previous one.

By Jove, I think, he really let himself go!

Susan has got to see this. I nudge her arm and motion over at him. Her brow crinkles. Her eyes widen. She puts her hand to her mouth.

Peter bites back a smirk, pretending to be fascinated with his silverware.

"Rabadash," bawls a tall, lanky man with a cockney accent who I assume is his boss, "I thought I told you I didn't want to see your ugly mug again until that blasted toilet was unblocked. Now get back in that bathroom and do your bloody job before I fire you."

I sigh contentedly, enjoying the show more than I probably should be. He disappears into the bathroom, holding his nose.

When our drinks and meals arrive some time later, Peter holds up his glass and announces a toast. "To a bright future, and to the three of us being happy just as we are today."

"And to those of us who aren't with us today," I add, my voice clear and distinct, "but are always in our memories and hearts…in spoken words and in silence."

Miles away in a grave-yard the last rays of sunlight slide away. They are casting their final bits of golden-orange light on a certain tombstone with a pink rose tied to a crown-shaped model of a laurel placed beside it.

What is lost and gone is never truly vanished. For Lucy Valiant is never forgotten. She is the dream and the inspiration. She is the source of the faith I've gained over time. And she is my voice.

And now I look to the future. It seems bright. I can't live in the past. I know I can't. But I also know that I can see it, that forgotten country of time, from where I stand in life, and call to it across that distant dark chasm. That is where she always waits for me. In the realm before my year of Golden Silence.


End file.
